The New Bride

Dying, darling, is the easy bit. Fifty paracetamol,

bride-white and sticking in the throat, ten shots

of Johnny Walker, and the deed is done.

A twilight day of drowsing, then the breathing

slows to a whisper, like a sinner in Confession.

Death is dead easy. No, what happens next

is the difficulty. You bastard, howling in public,

snivelling over photos, ringing round for consolation.

And you have me burnt, like a dinner gone wrong,

you keep the charred remains of me on show

at the Wake, inviting everyone I hate. Oh God,

they come in packs, sleek as rats with platitudes

and an eye on my half of the bed, hoping to find

leftover skin, a hint of fetid breath. I leave them

no hairs on the pillow; there are none to leave.

And a year to the day since I shrug off the yoke

of life, you meet the new bride. In group therapy.

You head straight for a weeper and wailer,

telling strangers all her little tragedies. You love

the way she languishes, her tears sliming your neck,

you give in to her on vile pink Austrian blinds.

The Wedding is a riot of white nylon. Everybody

drinks your health and hers, the simpering bitch.

She and Delia Smith keep you fat and happy

as a pig in shit. I want her cells to go beserk.

Some nights I slip between you. The new bride

sleeps buttoned up, slug-smug in polyester. You,

my faithless husband, turn over in your dreams,

and I’m there, ice-cold and seeking out your eyes

and for a moment you brush my lips, and freeze.

-- Catherine Smith, from The New Bride