|
first
published in Acumen, 2006;
in
collection, Gallery, Poetry Monthly Press
Crane
The portrait lied
— a ruddy, handsome lord.
The
match was made by proxy. When at last
I
saw him in the flesh I was aghast.
Nothing
I'd heard about him had prepared
me
for a cushion stuffed with gorgeous cloth,
a
broad, fat face, two little greedy eyes.
He'd
killed one wife, divorced the first. Now wise
to
what I'd taken on, I smelt his breath,
saw
his huge bulk undressed. He sickened me.
In
any case, the wretch was impotent.
Reasons
of state required a settlement.
When
he divorced me, I was glad to agree.
I
live in comfort. Who's the Flemish Mare?
At
least I kept my head. Why should I care?
Joan Sheridan Smith
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