In honor of Friday the 13th, resident poet Nigel Parkin pens a piece celebrating the madness of Pamela Voorhees
An Ode to Mrs. Voorhees
This rictus grin has stayed on my face these
Past twenty years, like the shining surface
Of that lake in the moonlight, hiding all
The darkness beneath, the choking, the screams,
The wild thrashing and angry, urgent cries
Of someone sinking in the black water
Of time, breathing in years of grief
Until their lungs burst, head swells, eyes bulge, fixed
And frozen and fossilized by my rage.
That lake. Look. Look at its face. Calm, smiling,
Drawing you in, saying, ‘Trust me. I’ll look
After you,’ before grabbing you, dragging
You down, pulling, tearing, pounding, crushing,
A force of destruction, single-minded,
Taking great delight in the art of death.
It took my Jason, taught me all I know
About killing, about how to handle
The need to kill, how to go about it.
I carry the lake with me, its secrets,
Its hunger, its power, its heart, the still
Beating heart of my boy. He’s inside me,
Waiting, ready to rise up from the depths,
Calling instructions in a broken voice
From my weed-wrapped soul. ‘Kill them all, Mommy!’
Yes, Jason! Oh yes, I will! I’ve begun!
That girl this morning, who was she kidding?
Did she think it looked modest to cover
Her chest with that orange top underneath
The unbuttoned shirt? Modest, my ass! Hell!
It was there to catch eyes! To tempt! To lure!
She was heading to the camp for one thing,
The thing that brings them all, that got you killed!
Well I’ll stop them. Just like I stopped her!
You liked hearing her beg me didn’t you?
I heard you chuckling! And when I showed her
The knife I heard your sweet, gleeful whisper –
‘Go on, Mommy! Do it! Open her throat!
I want to see blood!’ I did it for you
Didn’t I, darling? Tonight there’ll be more.
So, my beautiful, restless, rotting boy,
Come. I’ll give you a night to remember…
