Our Needy Sister Poem by Ewan Paterson

She wanted love to be some gloves
to cover her gnarled, nail bitten fingers
but
instead
of a second skin of silk
to bathe her hands in asses milk
she got
some irritating mittens
of coarse sackcloth
and a rash

that lingered.

She wanted love to be some shoes
that anticipated her every move
and made each step in life quite smooth
but
instead
her longingly wished for graceful tread
of supplest leather and finest thread
became
a constant source of hobbling pain
cobbled together with a snob's disdain
from blacksmiths nails trampled down
by hooves.

She wanted love
to be a gartered thigh.
Intimate as a passionate sigh.
A hot June day below
a cloudless sky
but
instead
of a seductive sprawl
on a four poster bed
she found manacled ankles
worn raw red
and the streaked mascara
from the tears shed
masked a veil thick
with hollow thankless
failure at her attempts
to secure a future
of wedded bliss
whose only kiss
was the fat lips
where the truth had hit her.

Old, new, borrowed, blue,
broken, bruised, battered, used.
She refused to believe any of this
were true.
She wanted love
my needy sister