Edna Purcell 1912-1930

Edna Purcell 1912-1930 Dying a virgin was the least of my regrets. Dying a chaste woman at 18 seemed a moot point. I remember watching my momma die. It was in summer, and I was 16. Hopelessly disconsolate, that’s how I felt; How would I live without her? Why was she so cruelly taken from me? How did she get so sick? My demise, then, was the anticlimax of my short sad life. Oh cruel Fate, you! I despise your insatiable appetite for shattered lives; Indeed, I spit on you for all the ill-timings and bad luck. I spit on your wry smile, lurking there, Behind the shadowy trellis, Of private episodes with flowers and silk; You, with those arrogant knowing glances, Those imploding muscular arms of private desperation. I died a virgin indeed, never having you, Died with an empty heart and a reeling soul. Life was just a foolish grab for nothing; Always seeming to have enough, But always wanting much more. That was life, my life in this quiet religious town. So, I died a virgin in 1930. I was 18. Too late for me, I guess. All I wanted, was to spit in your face! Oh cruel Fate, wrecker of dreams!