Tamara Sinfield
Lizzie Borden's trial goaded me into action.
Victims of incest can always read the signs;
Years of suppressed anger suddenly exploding
Into a rebellion of murderous savagery.
Mother, how could you have ignored the evidence?
Your empty bed, my blood and semen-stained sheets,
The embarrassed silence at the breakfast table
All pointed to the sins of a depraved parent;
His lust-filled eyes that could send me to trembling,
His voice, husky with passion, and his touch,
Repulsive as the feel of a tick on one's leg.
Smarter than Lizzie, I bided my time til
I could slip the sleeping potion into their stew.
A candle tipped onto a can of bacon grease
That had "spilled" onto the hardwood floor.
Fire!
I stayed in the burning house long as I could,
Then burst through the door, my hair singed,
My lungs rebelling against the acrid smoke.
Everyone exclaimed that my escape was a miracle.
Desire too can be an all-absorbing fire,
Yet it's said Hell's flames burn hotter, Father.
If God hasn't forgiven me I've joined you there.
Sarah Sinfield
Daughter, I wish that I'd confided in you.
Your father was once a good man, loving and kind,
But after I gave birth to you, Doc Meyers said
That another pregnancy would kill me.
Where can a Man of God go when he's denied
His marraige bed? I couldn't fufill his needs.
Our shame came upon us gradually, like a storm.
First the forbidden thoughts rolled in,
Menacing thunderheads of carnal desire.
No longer could my daughter sit on her father's lap
Without the light patter of sin beginning to fall;
A leer, a lewd remark, an inappropriate touch,
Then comes the thunderclap of betrayal.
That "Sin that dares not whisper its name."
Then followed a downpour of fear, of hurt, of blame.
My faith in God became the umbrella
That I prayed would protect my family from harm.
It didn't.
Put yourself in my shoes though, dearest daughter.
Your father would've lost his reputation,
His pulpit, and we our home had his secret come out.
My only hope was to pray that the storm would pass.
The Reverend Isaac Sinfield
My congregation erected a beautiful tribute;
A weeping angel kneeling over a granite monument.
"Here Lieth a Man of God" it boldly proclaims.
My helpmate is buried next to me, of course.
She who couldn't lay next to me as a wife
Now rests beside me for an eternity.
What delicious irony.
I beseeched the Lord to pluck away
The desire that had taken root in my mind.
Evidently he never listened to my prayers.
Meanwhile, I preached hellfire sermons against lust,
Loudly proclaimed the virtues of the family,
Taught catechism, visited the sick,
Lauded the dead and consoled the living.
Vestments can cover a multitude of sins.
If I would have been allowed to compose
My own epitaph, I would have indulged
My wit with a nod to life's ambiguities.
"Her Lieth a Man of God no longer."
Read into it what you will.
