by Rachel Kendall
Hail to the virgin
by virtue of the gin
she cradles to her breast
between love-lorn and scarred flesh.
The tales Ma regales are life's pregnant pauses;
a tropical wasteland, the lust to our causes.
To the bottle we flock,
juniper cocked,
to wash out our mouths
with medicinal cures...
bleach for the whores.
Cleanse our palate of the
seamen who reside below deck
their cargo unloaded,
the bottle jimmied open and the beast
unleashed for a 2-bit ride.
We rail at the virgin, that bitter-sweet sop
by virtue of the bottle, whose very last drop
she sucked up and thrust,
arse over teat, past skyward beaks
done turned to dust.
This desert of quills and pills and succulent cunnies
is parched to the bone with Ma's last breath.
The down-trod, hell-bent alchies and junkies
turn the other cheek to this gin-filled heap
as her children turn upon her in a matricide dance
to canonize later by virtue of chance.
