Dymphna

Existence Doubtful
My mother was the most beautiful woman in Eire.
Father, mad with grief when she died,
turned to me in a manner
against Nature, against God,
like the Devil himself.
I could not abide his touch, his eyes,
so I ran.
Across the North Sea to Gheel—
our priest, our Fool and his wise wife.
I was just fifteen. We fed the hungry and
nursed for the ill. I spent my dowry
with a Flemish merchant,
and those Irish coins led Father back to me.
Again he tried to wed me, to bed me,
slew the priest,
cursed the Fool,
then sliced me open with his sword.
The Devil lies in chains at my feet.
He looks like my father to me.