by Claire Smith
Her face the colour of stone
in the dying fire’s light —
its grate full of ashes.
She reels in her in-law’s quilt,
struggles as ice advances:
down her spine, to her hips,
across her bare thighs.
Without knowing why
she prays out loud;
her confessions long.
A hand comes for her neck,
a gold band on his finger.
Her husband’s wedding speech
unrobed.
He squeezes their vows
from her throat.
Her gown is cast aside,
to decompose on the bed-post.
Now frozen breezes whisper
in the cottage, repeat her last pleas.
Claire Smith writes poetry about other worlds. Last Christmas she celebrated with Odin, visiting a twenty-first century retail park. She’s been to the house of sweets from ‘Hansel and Gretel,’ but in the 1950s, where a rockabilly and his wife join the children to get rid of the real villain. When on earth Claire lives in Gloucestershire, UK, with her husband and their Tonkinese cat. Her work has appeared recently in Songs of Eretz, Corvid Queen, Illumen, and Spectral Realms. She is currently doing her PhD in Literary and Critical Studies at the University of Gloucestershire. Find her on the web at divingfornightmares.co.uk.
