Husband Poem by Belle Violet

There's one word I'm leery to speak,
and it's spoken by a woman each day.
'My husband, my husband' she'll giggle or groan
because heavy on him her life weighs.
For if he treats her poorly,
she suffers a mood of regret.
Her fairytale turned out to be
the death of Juliet.
And if he is her hero?
A knight shining high on his steed?
To love and kiss her forever more?
Well then, a happy life she'll lead.
That's quite the burden to lay on a man.
And quite the decision to make.
What if your happiest day turns out
to be your biggest mistake?
We don't waltz into this foolishly
or, I should say, we shouldn't.
No woman wants to say 'I will! '
only later to realize, she wouldn't.
So if you choose to ask me
some day down the line,
there are a few things you should know
before you waste your time.
'Husband' means a rugged man
with strong and dirty hands;
so calloused and well worn from work
the eye catches only that shiny gold band.
He is sturdy with thick muscled arms,
and he holds me close to his chest.
He may taste and smell of beer but,
his own scent, is when he smells best.
He is virile and vigorous and hearty;
he'd play catch with his boys out back.
If it were girls, then he'd play tea party,
and on his lunch break, read the love notes I packed.
He is insatiably greedy with kisses
and never too tired for me.
He'd get frisky when people weren't watching
because he couldn't keep his hands off of me.
And I'd be happy to lean over a stove cooking,
as he pulls my hips tight to his waist,
his thick suntanned arms wrapping 'round me.
Who cares how our burnt dinner tastes?
His eyes only could smile or smolder.
His lips only for kisses and whispers.
After we'd lay entangled for hours,
my forehead resting against his whiskers.
I'd wake up each night content, looking
up to his handsome and sleepy face,
not capable ever of resisting
his urgent midnight pace.
He'd have to be bold and demanding
in bed 'cause he'd burn with desire,
but kind and soft, with gently picked words
when I rage like a quick burning fire.
His goofy grin making me laugh
and his laugh always making me smile,
his worst days, could be fixed with my hug and my lips,
his best friend, since I walked down that aisle.
And when life finally eats up the last of him
and he's ashes or bones in the ground,
I'll pray grief eats what's left of me quickly
so I'll be with him, and where I belong.
So if you choose to ask me
maybe, some day, eventually, I hope
I've weighed my options wisely;
I'm ready to elope.