Over the Threshold

She is a Virgin,
Splayed across her dowry
In a time before my being
In a time before my father
And his Father
And the Father of my mother’s Father
I see the man she calls “Papa”

Her patience has been worn
By the dwarf-child at my side
That rounds about the room
In the morning tide
Which seeps through the window panes

My fallen Sister sees my hair
Fit for birds
With broken wings
When she speaks to Grief,
Her voice cracks in her age

“I pity the Fool who marries you.”
I laugh through fits of sweet rage

In a time of now,
Where there was never a then,
And where the Virgins seem scarce

-EA