Husband
Jan 31 2009


The bride practiced
in front of the mirror:
“I do”,
she tried to convince herself.
She was wearing white,
taffeta, satin, silk —
some gossamer confection,
as dreamed of
by little girls.

Sideways
you could see the beginnings of a bulge.
The man, who would control her;
and this germ of life,
slowly taking her over
from the inside out.
She feels like an impostor
in this chaste white dress,
far too pure for her.
She’d much prefer red,
as a Chinese bride is wed.
And to them
white is the colour of death,
she consoles herself.

The life inside gives a bump,
its tentacles reaching out
enveloping her vital organs;
its bright red blood
mixing-up with hers.
She will marry poor
and mother well,
she tells herself —
a daughter, she hopes
or a son;
and a father who’s afraid to love.