Marriage Through The Looking Glass
by Linda Ann Strang
Right after I tasted the magic mushrooms
I fell into him and other nightmares.
He tied me up for twenty years
and made me view horror movies, starring,
of course in Technicolor, myself.
I played a supporting role.
Always killed off before the final girl
ran around shrieking in her torn T-shirt,
I wore my gore like an evening dress –
tanzanite, rubies, and blueberry pearls
from the heart’s oozing oyster.
I didn’t mind too much:
the pawns on the pornography chessboard
fawned over me; the Cheshire cat
with the preview eyes and the toupee
lent me his fake smile on Tuesdays;
and I could have my way with opium smoking
caterpillars – if I wore stilettos
and let my husband watch.
I remember my wedding day.
“Do you take this …,” began the axe murderer
in his dog collar, reaching for the chain saw.
“Yes, I take it, I take it, and I’ll take it some more.”
The baby’s breath in my bouquet
burst into flames. The entire congregation
kissed my slit throat.
I gave my groom a flamingo golf club
and a wedding ring. He aimed the remote.
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