When Lovers Come to Court
Like a sham that covers pillow ticking,
makeup hides the pain. My face is tender
but no one will know. These dull eyes trace
the outline of a shape that isn’t mine.
I’m not that old. Defiantly the mind slips
back…. I should have known when we were courting.
Love is blind! Your mother said you would court
Death if you thought she would have you. Ticking
lovers off a list like groceries. My slip
is missing! Devotion was your tender
for my hand, my life! For all that was mine.
Now this cruel betrayal. My fingers trace
in the dust on the dresser. There’s no trace
of ownership--what’s yours, what’s mine. The court
will decide. It’s not as though there’s a gold mine.
But! There is the old mantel clock ticking
over the fireplace. The judge will tender
me that. You’ll fight it. Maybe you’ll slip
into that arrogant--- Ah! Here’s my slip!
And I must stop it now; there is a trace
of hatred in this heart once so tender.
Oh! I remember dancing in the court
yard. Do you? The strident tell-tale ticking
of my heels on the marble. You were mine
then. Weren’t you? Or were you ever mine?
Check my face--whited sepulchre--then slip
into the taxi. The meter ticking
off the miles, it shies and balks at the traces.
The building seems more a church than a court
house. The flower beds are full of tender
tulips. I applaud the gardens’ tender
silently. The dim hall presents a mine
field. I cannot make it to the court
room. I know I can’t. From nowhere you slip
into step beside me. Is there a trace
of grief at my heels’ familiar ticking?
Suddenly you wax tender, gently slip
your hand in mine. Your regret--just a trace--
tempers the court clock’s incessant ticking.
C 1989 Ellen Rae Mabry Hafen
Sestina
Sad but poignant. You are an amazing writer Ellen! Have you ever tried to publish?
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