from the casebook of Carl Gustav Jung

A lady of considerable means
entitled to write von before her name
people touched their forelocks to her.
She’d inherited the family castle
beside a pretty lake.

Disdaining to pursue an idle life
she underwent training to be a doctor
found there was no inner God-shaped blank
concluded Man was nothing other than
an engine made of meat.

Had feelings for the husband
of another woman – her best friend:
poisoned the friend and married him.
Whatever could there be of consequences
if no one found out?

Within a year her plundered man had died.
Growing up, the daughter of the match
arranged to live as far away from mother
as she could decently contrive to be
and so they lost touch.

The lady was a splendid horsewoman
owning a stable of fine mounts
that presently grew nervous under her.
The second time one threw her, then she knew
her riding days were done.

She had a cherished wolfhound when
one day the animal contracted
an inexplicable paralysis.
Eventually he needed putting down.
At last her cup was full.

Her loneliness became unbearable.
She found herself immured behind glass walls
of her very own origination.
How could she reach out to a knowing mind
except another murderer’s?

In God Almighty she did not believe:
in sin, nor absolution, nor redemption –
and so confessing to a priest no answer.
Only the requirements of his office
obligating listening to her story.

At last the lady came across Carl Jung –
a person trained as a psychiatrist.
He, also like her an unbeliever,
proved just as baffled by the syndrome
as she had been.

The lady paid for just one consultation.
Hearing no more about her, Jung surmised
the only way she’d found out of her prison
had been in fact to murder one more person –
herself.