Nothing will placate the so-called failure
of that night – the week before all pomp
and circumstance to take its due; you
lay in lacy white expectantly your eyes
aglow to consummate our unity though
arms of sleep reached out enfolding me.
Penance came at dawn in cheeks aflush
with blushes clean, delight embracing
nuptial cries applaudingly; ‘tis where I’d
lay awake reprieved forever and a day –
you are the bride to whom I cede all of
my time’s infinity.
You claim I’d been afraid to touch you as
a wife that night – and I agree, the waif I
lusted with upon a beach had fed me well –
too well to take this fragile angel in my
arms and bend her to my will she begged
in ways which made a mockery of me.
My lusting never faced as stern a test as
wanting you so much – a fear you’d fly or
run away distressed me such I couldn’t
breathe that night; I slept imprisoned in a
fight for breath a taste a touch a slice of
what you promise me as cherished wife.
© 24 August 2009, I. D. Carswell