Mademoiselle Le Blanc

One late summer evening
Shepherds tended to their sheep
All was well with the commonfolk
Until the muddy streets carried a mother’s weep.
Babes bit into breasts
And children woke from their rest
All running out to see
That the devil had come to Songi.
She wore dirt like a skin
With a club in her hand,
A scowl on her face
Paired with eyes that demand.
They sent seven bloodhounds
Wearing thick, iron collars
To rip at her throat;
None returned and none caught her.
Monsieur La Condamine heard
word
and saw her.
He thought he could tame her,
Make her a daughter.
So Godin the servant bought her,
And La Condamine’s maids they wrought her,
Reformed her into a respectable girl
So they could show her off to the hungry world,
Just waiting to devour her wild eyes and curls.
They shined her up like a shoe:
Proud as a peacock
Soft as a pearl.
Little did they know,
Beyond as far as they could tell,
They were killing the little Mademoiselle.
In less than a week
She was flat on her back.
Having never been so weak
La Blanc’s reckless smile began to spoil and snap.
Her little bones began to crumble and crack.
And her many years to come
Were blurred together in one
Long, vexing, restless, nap.
Now you see Condamine,
With good intentions in mind,
Set fire to a spirit gone astray from the times.
So when the next rare bud
Grows beyond the blossom trees,
Remember the tragedy
And leave it back in Songi.