The Defense of Little Hood Goody

The Defense of Little Hood Goody

By Rosanna Mecklenburg

 

Until the dawn of words mirror howling

Illuminations of enmeshed melodies and blessed bays

Rhapsodic urges,

Psalms of life.

 Laconic, righteous singsong.

The notes of tragic sacrifice renewing,

Accepting, and allowing sweet delights of poetry

Of marriage and triumph.

Stories of birth, mockingbird tales

Of isolation and lust, chaotic and sinful

Of mankind, flawed and godlike

Of godkind nearly.

 

Until notes and golden voice

Glisten bare in the virgin pool,

And mother, maiden and maker,

Siren, father and bride,

Child and savior

 Emerge as ghostly demarcations of the soul

But of one body, wholly body,

Mythical and rhythmic,

Alive.

 Until then, her hymn will decompose.

 

Pungent and festered, arisen,

She spoke.

Disconsolate over what was once

Commanded

To be seen and not heard

A mound in the dirt.

 

Pregnant with fruit seed

Little Hood Goody read to Riding Shoes.

She sang to the

Children, the mask, the man behind the curtain,

 The melody that made their hearts soar because she loved

Them for they were simple.

She praised the sunlight that warmed

The cherished brown soil and the soft and

Gentle touch of rebirth.

 

Little hood goody looked and knew

That the darkness had accrued her bounty

In the magic breeze

Her invigorating joy was the only need

Eternity caught in a minute

As they listened to the sweet honey sound

Of a daughter’s innocent grace

In an abundant heaven

Displaced.

 

 

The song transformed enchantment

Romantically

And with speed

Young boys danced around their

Handsome steeds.

One hundred fair Dulcineas

Cried gleefully

As the shepherds kept watch over

 Triumphal ceremony and

  Tears of Frye ecstasy showered on donkeys.

 

Rejoice, lift your hands into the air and sing

The sweet melody song

Of salvation and chastity, hand-shaking

Celebration’s illuminating,

Jubilation,

Deviation from the beginning

Of wanting to get a head, not an apple

Sang the Ideal matchmaker’s protégée,

Little Hood goody.

 

And in an exacting melodic moment

A strange new key betrayed

A faint relief

To the madness.

Soundly in the fiddling tune

A note of terror

Resumed and mimed to overtake the

Festive mood. 

 

The arrangement between

Father and groom not wholly completed

Doth made her song the Blues.

Hood Goody turned to the crowd,

Her Siren head hung,

Aged beauty to all good

Wilting in puddles of ice.

Sharp came the insightful notes

From the mournful Lady of flight.

The children, the mask, the man behind the curtain

Took heed to Riding Shoes plight

Asking, dissecting, demanding to

Right

Little Hood Goody.

 

For they had heard her sing.

Or was it more than that?

Had she sung of them

Late at night, did she cry tears,

Alphabetical smeared elegies,

 Goddess-less dirges of iniquitous play?

Violent death and sacrificial bays?

They questioned the traitorous hymns and tragic games.

They shattered her mirror

And the sound went away.

 

Under white floods

Little Hood Goody turned from the fall

Of the life she loved most and

She laughed with them in the retelling of

The passion and the betrayal.

 Corpus Christi she could have named herself while

Forever intertwining

 The flesh of fishnet stockings in an erotic embrace

In Sisyphus-like glee turned tragedy, now irony.

 

It was a dance of unspoken communication

It was a wordless,

Sorrowful sound echoing

Down

In cold darkness, hood goody returned.

It was the dance of war and heartache,

Of weapon dissipation

And human elevation into the spirit

She heard the song of her epic beginning

When she first heard the beat that stole her being

And the purgation of her soul.

Finalizing the final phase of her ritual. 

Where meaning is slaughtered

And remains the empty possibility

Of hope.