Bel Wallace

The dogs shall eat Jezebel by the wall of Jezreel

1 Kings 21:23 (KJV)

At this high window I show my best profile.
Smoke a last cigarette. I’ve painted my face.
War paint. This is how I have lived. Hair
sprayed high and proud. My style.

Call me idolater. Yes, I kept my faith.
The prerogative of a Queen. You know that.
True, hundreds ate at my table. How otherwise?
Those were the days of a prophet for a prophet.

And tell me, what loving wife would not lift
her husband’s spirits with the gift of a vineyard
or a yacht? I sit here ready to join your damned.
Do you think I give a fuck about the dogs?

Bel is now a free radical.1 She has been many more conventional things, most recently a carer. Now, cut loose, fully on hejira. Currently somewhere between Cairo and Shanghai. She’s left her novel in a drawer, not sure where. She loves foot-notes, but tries to restrain herself. Bel’s poetry has been shortlisted for the Bridport Prize, nominated for the Pushcart and longlisted for this year’s Forward Prize. It has also been published in a range of anthologies, journals and webzines, most recently in Anthropocene, Ink, Sweat &Tears and Under the Radar. She’s trying to finish editing her first novel, but keeps getting distracted by poetry.

1. unstable, highly reactive molecule with one or more unpaired electron (AI)

Bel had this to say about her poem:

Sometimes poems come when characters just step into my head and start speaking. With Jezebel, it’s been a lengthier journey. I think it started long ago with the resonance of her name. Then the Edith Piaf song, then Sadé's. My religious education was patchy, but even I knew that Jezebel = evil x female. In a moment of curiosity, I did a bit of research, found the Old Testament story, and her voice came through, firm and clear. The voice of resistance.