Marriage by Rose Mary Boehm

We kept the mattress on the floor
for reasons of economics—remember?
When our baby son crawled in to sleep between us
without much ado, it became a godsend.
We didn’t keep each other warm,
laughter hid our emptiness.
We didn’t notice the spiders
undoing their fragile web.

The luxury bed that lifted our heads
and feet if we so chose, the 500-thread cotton,
the large, mirrored wardrobe,
the jacuzzi, the private school, the two Beemers
were only hiding wounds that could not heal.

We smiled and nodded like wind-up toys;
I spent time with the mothers and sometimes fathers
of the kids’ friends. You were always too busy.

One day a young woman came to our house
and asked for your hand.

We all survived the end of another marriage,
the quake and its aftermath,
forever changed by the tsunami of our lack of wisdom,
everyone in their own kayak riding the rapids.
Loathing—the hors d’oeuvre
Forgiving—the main course
Friendship—the dessert

Many years ago, we each married others,
but when you dared to die, I missed you.



A German-born UK national, Rose Mary Boehm lives and works in Lima, Peru. Author of two novels and eight poetry collections, her work has been widely published in US poetry journals. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/