A Misattribution by Deborah Harvey

I am not a silent poet

The honeymoon ended

but the moon kept pouring, no one said when

and within a couple of months

his blood was heavy, sluggish with honey

their new life together

built of sugar

the doors peanut brittle, the windows

glazed with melted sweets

and he

losing his temper, raging

hair stuck to the ceiling, his fingers

and palm prints marking the walls

while she who’d promised

in sickness, in health

baked puddings and cakes

sweetened with apple

learnt to spot symptoms the instant

he stormed in through the door,

not knowing that fury isn’t a given

not seeing how everything had turned golden,

he an idol in his palace

she walled up in a honeycomb cell

From Deborah’s new book, breadcrumbs

 

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