From the recording Marry Me Margret
From a wedding night to a terrible time long ago Margret takes us on a journey.
There is laughter and I am across the threshold renewed and newly wed once again.
And he is wild for a while and that is fine.
And we lay on a bed bathed in neon and I let him inside. And I can feel their need and they are all needy pale broken and bereft of hope.
And after we tumble and toss, they weep for loves lost and lives ruined and I cradle them against my heart and bestow the serenity and serenity and sanctuary I once sought from the embrace of a malignant love years ago.
A sanctuary denied.
And I do not want to go but you must know so I am back now in a washroom of a too loud too small ghetto apartment, oblivious immersed in a full length mirror only inches away.
And we are changing places she and I according to the deal made before the brown belt broke the skin.
And in my arms is the pale blue pillow from the bed where I slept as a girl and I have kissed it many times and loved it and it is not real but it is.
And it is that pillow’s first day to ride warm against my womb secured by the Barbazon slip stole from the laundry basket on the stairs.
And in this mirrored moment I am moving in and she is moving out and we are so close and for that moment our essence aligns in the world inside the glass where there is calm and cool and christmas and there is peace and then it is gone amid the clamor on the stairs and Sacha’s pounding on the door and I am betwixt and between but he pushes hard against the frame and breaks all bonds of extradition and I am still of this world.
And I expect a smack. Oh yes I do but he is listing like a parrot perched on a pencil and horribly laughing and kicks the commode lid and relieves himself with noises of grotesque satisfaction and after a perverse show of not washing turns and wipes his urine streaked hands on the ruff of my proxy pillow child.
But there is a brown bottle in the bottom drawer I took from the bedside table after Mary’s death and I empty the entire contents of the analgesic in the half pint of brown liquor he pours in his mouth every night.
And it is 2:14 by the phosphorescent face of the clock and Sacha is still breathing.
And now he’s not.