Lucy of Eyes
Jai Britton

Lucy chugs westward. Destination nuptials.
The groom isn’t her idea
of fun. He wears plaid. “Don’t you think, Mom,
that I should take the Almighty
for a partner instead?”

Momma says nope, he’s bringing me
goats, perhaps a llama.
But plagues have a way of Karma. Lucy’s ma
had locusts in her veins
and Lucy to the mall of Agatha went.
She bought some worry stones
and a dreamcatcher.

A miracle, faithandbegorrah! Lucy
saves the day and they all eat cake.
The cake was lemon. There was laundry
on the line.

Lucy throws a tantrum
and gets what she wants. No pagan,
no marriage but the man of plaid
has a no-return policy on the ring.

The cops show up,
along with the cameraman,
and take poor Luce
off in cuffs. The Beatles were playing
on the radio. It was night.
The neighbours whispered.

“We hear you’re engaged to the man in the sky,”
and they plucked out an eye,
just like the verse
about four and twenty ravens.
It made a small sucking noise
as it eased out of her skull.

There was a pie. It was mincemeat. The cops
each had a slice
before partaking of her other eye. The eye
was blue, the pie was warm.