There’s six feet of dirt above her now
But here lies no bones, we haven’t found them yet
She was forty-nine when she died, and in life, she used to hate pictures
She’d turn her head and blush away from the flash
Here lies no bones, but the memory:
Of a house wife. A mother. A murder victim. A close family friend. Julie.
And she’s finally quiet: --
Because he stole her voice; the one that nagged constantly
Do the dishes. Mow the lawn. Balance our chequebook.
The one that taunted: your mother was right about you.
He took a hammer, that same one he used to dig rusty nails out of their daughter’s bedpost
And he put it through her skull. It made a cracking sound. Claudie, their daughter –
She was asleep in the next room, and Julie was nothing but a broken puppet in his arms.
He made her slump and helpless, feminine; finally emasculated her.
Carried her, the Classical God, to the river
- the river I walk past on my way home (I imagine the waves lapping the banks are her, smiling)
There’s six feet of dirt above you now, Julie
For each year she’s been gone, each year life goes on without her
Her killer and husband rots in jail, his hair white, a ghost;
Her daughter lives across the country with an aunt;
I visit her memorial every once in a while, but I have a life
After they announced her death on television, the pretty reporter moved on as well, ‘to other news…’
Her scars do not remain, and I want to apologize
But Julie would’ve wanted it to smooth over; she wouldn’t have wanted us to cry
She let the waves take her that night, let her body sink to the bottom
And now she’s alive in the laughing river, where children play every Saturday.