Everlasting

Every bride asks herself, What if 
he doesn’t show up? What then? 

I fully identify with poor Miss Havisham, 
stranded at the altar, the groom’s absence 
whispered in the ash grove. I could never 

move from there. White, cobwebbed plumes 
would tangle my stiff net veil, 
the frothy dress, Dickensian in its decay, 
my metacarpals hanging fleshless. 

My three desolate sisters would acquire 
teeth as yellow as tusks, the flesh of hobgoblins,
purple-veined noses and crunchy bouquets. 

Eternity without you. Count on me 
to wait forever.