My Sister Bride

The day I weep for you in silence

Through my pores, this hot evening in October,
You are smiling.
It is the start of this year’s wedding season.
In emblazoned red you sit there waiting
Kohl-eyed.
Your henna-smeared hands clasped in your lap
Like limp wounded birds.
I cannot breathe for fear of breaking.
Do you smell my desperation?
Do you know, my sister bride
Or do you think it best to hide behind false bravado?
In the pure twenty-two carat gold
Hanging leaden round your neck
Are you choked by my tradition,
Do I cast you in the mould?
The veil falls heavy on your shoulder
Like a cross that you will carry from today
Without salvation at the end
Vain supplication, barb-wire words, and rags of pride.
And only part-possession of your self,
My sister bride.
This day, your wedding day
You are a burnt out star in a final brilliant blaze.
You are beautiful.
A tinsel-clad sacrificial lamb
Magenta-dyed, led in with drums.
An offering to the gods of men.
And just for this day you are glorified,
My sister bride.