Seated at my Uncle's funeral fire
Are family close, all well attired
In the middle of them like a well fed hen
Is he who took aim, and recompense
A virgin's vow, a promise given.
My face burns as his chin mocks mine
Three lies told, only one is closed.
Husband bare, he stripped me-
Of the future promise given by another.
Leaving me to deal with the fruit within
Without bother from any other hand.
A father extracts a lie,
A promise, a plead of things that are not -
It doesn't matter, now, the blood cleanses all.
I sit up taller, holding a new husband's vow
In my closed palm-
Promises that never faltered.
He mocks me
His eyes dance with the secret he holds.
The virgin's lie is finally over.
Comments about this poem (Mocking Grin by Charlotte Ballard )
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