Final Soliloquy of Miss Mary Grace
to the sacred memory of Flannery O’Connor
Paul Mariani
God, I can feel the waiting room getting ready to heaveagain. Look at the old codger over there. And how
about the white trash child wiping her nose on her sleeve.
And the driveling fool with his calf kicked purple by a cow?
And in the midst of all this suffering, this mountain
of a woman. Turpin she calls herself. Turpin. Well
named, old wart hog. Christ, there she goes again,
yammering on & on. Do, Lord, damn her to some fiery hell….
Still going on about her field niggers & her poor white trash,
& her own high place in God’s own world. As if she knew.
As if she knew….Stare at me, will you?! I’d as soon smash
that stupid, self-important face of yours. Yes, you! You!
God, it’s hot in here. Light’s growing brighter.
The chair’s trembling….Look at her. Smelling like pig shit
and swearing it’s roses. Head’s getting lighter & lighter.
Listen to her. “One thing I am, it’s grateful.” Wit-
less bitch, thanking her good friend God for making
everything just the way it is. Thank you, thank you,
Jesus! Thank you, Grand Designer, so very much for taking
my scrambled brains into your loving hands. Thank you
for my grand mal epileptic fits and this fine pimply face.
What the hell’s the use of toting this three-pound brick
of a textbook about except to hurl it with all the Grace
one can against some self-appointed, self-righteous bitch?
Mind. Mind. What mind? The Meaning of Meaning,
Human Development, Darwin, Buber and all
that jazz. Woman, you watching Grace Herself preening
here. Parse this. God’s own sweet angel at your beck & call.