We are young ladies whose mornings
are filled with daydreams of mistressing,
the hideous thief in black dresses
not meant for mourning,
making off with husbands to steal time,
borrow the family's bounty, and in exchange,
we have been slapped into bleeding,
cursed, called names not found in the Bible
while we could only turn our noses up,
smile faking dignity,
for the touchy are the only losers
in this game of taking.
We remain unaffected mistresses,
unburned on crosses,
still keep the man's rented house and garden
well-tended, a home consoled
without the nags and sounds
of complaining wives.
I love the attention -- the hushed talks
of old folks in the veranda,
the look of righteous men,
the threat from firstborns,
the grimace of a middle child,
the homily of the priest,
the psalms of the old maids at the chapel.
All the attention not given will be due
sooner or later,
all the young girls not cared for
will be kept for good
when they age beautifully,
the sickly teens will be nursed by many hands
back to health before they die,
for life is a cycle of lacking and having,
of wanting and being wanted.
There is nothing better than this --
taking time that should be spent
on daily little sacraments,
putting the family together
in moments of prayer,
carrying the kids to bed,
working on their catechism lessons,
catching ball with young boys
at the lush lawn.
To take holiness away
makes time more golden,
turning me much worthier
than all the pillars of the home,
for I can give what they cannot,
spare what a wife does,
that keeps men looking for me,
finding me even if I have left --
someone so fleeting, so temporary,
a wife's mirror image with no demands
yet filled with pretty unholy offerings,
a love or need that is not just forever;
but in the end, sinful men are a number
and all their sordid lives combined
can last more than my lifetime.
