Words do not heal. They can no longer cleanse the fouled quill.
Angels were never eternal. Cherubs are dreams, blue lips still,
and they refold unseen wings, abandon soft, crofted cradles.
Doctors are mad, delusional, believing themselves God, blinking
narrow, unfazed eyes as they see cold errors too late. Monsters all,
humanity. Oh, they are so ignorant, unrepentant and repugnant
as they sing lustily from taverns, sated and warm while you mourn
or say they empathize with your unspeakable loss while they rock
a plump babe. Monsters are everywhere. Why, last night she saw
one in the study. He stoked a fire, but then his shoulders shrugged
as embers refused his niggardly attentions. He knows a dim lamp
burns elsewhere, a straggled light that flexes his dark. She keeps
company, too, a beast with bedraggled claws and far reach. It sins
inside her tomb-womb, as deep as the contents of her new ink well.
She adds another curse to the full page to appease the fiend within.
*Inspired by our local poet, Chris Aechtner
Mary Shelley, author of Frankenstein was first Percy Shelley’s lover before she became his second wife. Their first child, a daughter named Clara, died at two weeks old. Supposedly, Percy was indifferent. So much so that he found another lover. Mary was devastated. While vacationing with Shelley in Italy, where they became friends with Lord Byron, Mary ‘conceived’ the idea for Frankenstein and it took nine months to finish the first draft. Mary and Shelley had three more children, two died before the age of 3. Mary herself refers to the monster in Frankenstein as her "hideous progeny.” Mary died at 53 from a brain tumor.
This site is full of info: http://www.victorianweb.org/previctorian/mshelley/bio.html