Domesticity

She knows the smell of marriage.
She's inhaled it in her parents'
House, and in the homes of many
Friends. She's caught it from
My wife and me. It's stale and
Dusty, like a book that sits, unopened,
On a shelf. It hints at safety and
At dullness, satisfaction of a
Relatively unappealing kind, and,
Sadly, sometimes, she detects a
Whiff of it when she is with the
Young man she intends to marry.
Stale already? Can that be?
It can. That's why she waits for
Me, and all the scents which I exude:
Of poison, danger, of such wrong
As nightshade blossoms. She'll
Inhale, and both of us will close our
Eyes, and tell ourselves that all these
Heady odors are the ones we ought
To treasure, but I know she'll slip
Away to her young man, and dullness,
Dust, and I'll go home to face the
Same, and all that will remain of
That bouquet of nightshade blossoms
I once brought her will be memories.
She'll smile. She'll sniff. Her husband,
Like my wife, won't understand.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 85 times
Written on 2015-08-26 at 00:50

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