He wasn't my husband to be,
wasn't my husband not to be. . .
he was a lonesome lover of lover.
He did not have a father.
& here I am years later,
wandering if he had believed all those years later,
he had had that one jailer as a father.

His father today brings bee nests,
to my ears,
and he believes he sees now his Woman,
me through the eyes of a Poppet,
or him through the eyes of his glory self.

Rest.In.Peace.

© Clarissa C. van Vreden