November, the life once led
infecter slips away subdued. Bury
the ash in the Bronx (Ms. Mary
Mallon) so only memories may
remain whilst endured through
infamy. But if conditions were
simple as being the way we appear
we would not have known the name
of bearer and aid in the expanse
of fierce disease. Disharmony
'tween the way which she appeared
and the malaise she caused through
a cause. From the shorelines of
great rolling greens, from
pressured tumultuous life they
came 'cross waters chance that
they'd just be. So had she, had
Mary 14. Turning the century she
had found purpose in delivering
fouled sustenance house-cooking
but twenty-two infections brought
light to patterns, grounds for
isolation set, executed and
recalled should sickness never be
spread through such means again.
But passionate paths rarely
redirect thus quarantine would
remain life quarters until fading
days. No soul would have asked for
such despairing fate. We can't
deny, can't deny she'd be rueful.
No, it was a birth right she would
not outlive. As they said and they
said and they said she was death
she'd speak out but she would not
outlive. No matter how much she
wished she'd simply be this is how
she'd exist.