I gave my husband bruises to
plaster me with.
Bare boned, I have pleaded with
double edged devils
to spare me from
fingers engulfed in flame.
But, the fire comes. Twisting
my insides out, wringing
leftover drops
of love
out,
to drip down drains,
to suffocate.
Permeation takes place. Fresh
becomes stale,
gross.
Like wedding cake.
Like a bride’s bouquet.
Like stiff shoulders daring a
husband to come close.
She is the orange hatter. Holding
orange rose blossoms
against black lace.
Bride marrying
a fish;
a plaid, handsome fish.
He watches her walk,
holds stern hands together,
to keep
from touching
a brunette flower in gold trim.
She is beautiful, the flower, with
agony’s gaze.
With child.
Matching orange bouquets with the bride.
Flushed in the background,
a lemon princess smiles.
Throwing innocence on
holy ground. The only
child left.
Left by Mother, (un-photographed),
because
Mother had no bouquet, just
a bastard lemon child
in a basket,
in July.
July has taken more lemons than
given. From dumpsters.
From wombs.
Some, children of children.
Some, children of
addicts,
victims,
shame.
Some, children of a flower in
Gold trim, holding on to a matching
bouquet
of a Bride.
In case of necessity, hang your husband.
Your pistol might misfire, but prevent.
It will happen, poor turtle!
Your slow shoes will be suspicious; sluggish,
lame,
dragging the accused on a rope.
What a shame personal bravery is. Suspecting
everything
but its own heart. Much better a
widow than
a former, I suppose.
So, just in case, keep rope.
Mary or
Heather or
Anne will lay weight on
your fool. Pretty wretch!
Then wine,
then pistol,
biting cries then
silence.
She can’t escape without her eyes!
He means
to bury himself deep
in your bed,
where you may find happiness
tomorrow,
but
the rope!
A whore will steal everything but!
maggiemaeijustsaythis 