She had been a bitch the day before she died.
A frothing, cloven-hooved cunt the like of which
Every modern man has seen his wife transform
Into at some point in their marriage.
She wasn’t even on the rag;
Her blood was elsewhere, and boiling.
The trash couldn’t be disposed fast enough;
The sheep wasn’t slaughtered in time for her to cook it right;
I couldn’t dry the dishes before her tongue struck.
So maybe after we sent the kids to bed,
I called her a few choice words,
And I might have slept on the couch.
But all marriages go through such things.
The next day, you say you’re sorry
Work on that fourth baby, and put what’s
Past behind you.
That morning, as the chicken’s squawking woke me,
I stumbled, feet slapping the chilly wood flooring, to our bedroom.
The four-poster creaked, the feather mattress lumped,
Only to find your nipples, darling, cold to my touch,
Your mouth open, but not with snores,
The dark brush between your legs dry as the fire’s ashes.
Oh, Beatrice. I regret what I said,
And I had known you were a spiteful woman,
But forcing me to walk through Hell
To apologize when you knew I would be sorry,
It was a little much, even for you.
By: Leighanne Ellis