I was never your Intended,
never meant to be the official widow
like that plain, chinless girl I refused to recognize
or comprehend.
But the plain ones are patient, aren’t they?
I’ll admit, she’s earned her orchestra seats
at this burial the old-fashioned way.
She’s up front, next to your mama,
that Chanel commando baked medium-well
in her spray-on tan. A rare example
of a real Southern lady—how many nights
did it cost her, patrolling
the family compound for Jezebels like me?
Your women, dead man. From here
they look like two snap peas squatting
in the same pod.
And they did their job, didn’t they?
They made it easy for you?
But later, once the ladies go,
I’ll climb down to you again.
I’ll come to you in that dirty box
where we’ve already slept for years,
keeping our silent house
under their avalanche of flowers.
from Black BoxFind it in the library
Copyright © 2006 Erin Belieu
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Copper Canyon Press.