Rite
Maud Gonne’s grief at the death of her son led her to attempt to conceive another in the child’s tomb.
Mausoleum. She puts her tongue
against the word. Thinks maudlin.
Thinks museum. Thinks her Georges,
as darling as a Degas bronze,
his little shoulders quite thrown back.
There is as much darkness
as she wished for. As much moon.
Sometimes it pays to be this tall.
She has to stoop to enter –
thinks pharaoh. Womb.
When she sits, it is on marble.
The smell is of the potting shed –
an old fur coat… She should have brought
a coat. They will not speak.
There is no spell but each long thigh,
her raking hands, her vixen call –
but all of that comes later.
Now, she shuts her eyes on lichen,
parts her lips and rests a palm
on all the letters of her favourite name.
Rachel Curzon‘s debut pamphlet was published under the Faber New Poets scheme. More recently, she has had work published in Ink, Sweat & Tears, Magma and Propel Magazine. She lives in Yorkshire.