Half-Lies

Buttoned into mother's old silk gown,
I cringe under winter skies
rolling over the church steeple
as the first couples arrive,
others trailing behind.

My fingers clutch the corsage,
rose buds taut around
one swollen orchid screaming
its scent across my unready
breasts and lips.

A thick lace veil covers my face,
given by my great-aunt
who played dirges on her gramophone
for wandering lovers.

Blood will not drench my sheets
for my virginal petals have long ago been
spread and drained by unloving hands
needing only a girl-child's body
to warm them throughout the night,

so I creep down this aisle,
thinking of purity and half-lies,
promise to love
honor and obey, aware that I cannot,
ever, but prepare myself 
to be consumed by the fire 
that is you.



Pris Campbell
©2002
revised 2008


Art: Madonna by Munch
Music: Siciliana by Handel

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