Thrumming away from each other like broken mountains,
by your second year, you had been excommunicated.
Wrought by the passage of God, your clipped speech and ruddy cheeks
made it hurt to be alive.
Her dowry – platelets swimming under skin and a fertile womb.
Yours – a cellar of wine and an insistent mother whose teat you never could retire.
At one time you were fleshy hips and languid tongues,
begging eyes and fast of foot across the floor.
With a God she could never swallow, nor your stewed kicks –
pissing on tyres your watermark
only to lurch into clarion cries of cocky rapture.
Days of wine and roses capsized into nights
of swollen heads and an ugly mouth.
Now foreheads cowl in fury –
screaming at divorce lawyers who bathe in the blood of your children,
you’ve learnt how to torch yourself with mediators papers –
slack words spilling from the moorings of your mouth
with cataracts of guilt you will never feel.