Our Honeymoon Night


Our honeymoon night 

when at last I wore his ring 

as he did mine

 for a time

 until the accident, 

a sign he’d said, 

they cut it off 

and broke the bond 

that day he went inside 

he said, 

but I remembered signs 

of rifts  

another way 

Half gone – the first child showing, 

fat

my brother came 

and read the riot act – 

I held him back 

and swore 

our love far stronger than 

the ties a family bind and cut

through trying to be kind – 

he left,

my blood brother, bereft – 

yet nephewed none the less

tied by blood and torn

as I was 

once our son was born, 

and birth delivered me

a different form of love,

secretly, 

a greater bond to life 

bound my son and I, 

than being someone’s wife; 

a love biology had given me

responsibility 

to nurture from the start – 

despite my aching heart’s desire 

to mend the broken parts of you,

I had to choose, 

my love 

our baby’s needs 

a different kind of love 

now held me to account

for poverties my family had paid 

to take away 

from grandchildren they’d hoped

to save from accidents of birth 

I had resolved, that time, 

while you were inside,

to put 

the children first, 

despite my charismatic husband’s needs

and worse

his need of love.

My resolution waned when

my love returned, 

again – 

and later when our second, 

born into a home 

which struggled to provide

your needs, 

or mine, my love, 

my charismatic husband’s needs 

filled space

with an uncertainty 

I grew to hate.

‘I might have cleft my jaws tight shut and sealed the doors, remained inside to live a living death inside – addicted to your love – an organ doner, wired, to fuel your need of me, security, my love’ I said. 

‘And I might make that self same speech to you,’ he said and took to the spare bed. 

A symbiotic pact 

two damaged people made 

to suicide, 

bereave,

leave children, in their name,

two graves

Engraved: 

‘No blame’

Compassionately. 

It might have ended then.

I might have stayed. 

They’ll tell our story differently one day 

– to suit each moment’s narrative 

While I tell stories of 

our wedding day

and not

Our honeymoon night

when at last I wore your ring 

and you did mine,

for a time. 

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