A Twist on the The Emperor's New Clothes - Poetry Gong #6

Explaining the Wedding

The Wife decided, finally, that clothes are useless,
her body remembers how to lace.
Let her fingers slide into position.
The beast can cover itself.

Her body remembers lace
recalls darning everyday gaps.
The beast can cover itself.
The bedroom is so cold.

Recall darning everyday gaps
the husband, the wall, the cracked mirror.
The bedroom is so cold,
the ice princess paid the rent.

The husband, the wall, the cracked mirror--
it was not the white knight’s proposal.
The ice princess never dreamed of paying rent.
Her fairy godmother bought the gown.

It was not the white knight’s proposal,
let her fingers slide into position.
Her fairy godmother bought the gown.
The Wife decided, finally, clothes are useless.

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A pantoum, after Carolee's running poem.

You're Not Getting Paid To Love

She doesn’t believe the man in the black robe and top hat when he springs the news. You just don’t find men like that anymore, at least not men brave enough to wear black and grey on a hot spring day. If he had given her the news at midnight, she would have been inclined to sock him, right in the kisser. As it is, it’s broad daylight. The pews are filled with broad-brim hatted women, waving paper fans in front of shiny jowls. That’s an awful lot of hot broads for a May-December wedding. Her lilies of the valley are sweating. Leaving bite-sized beads on her satin pumps. She’ll kiss the other man in black, the man with a tail. Or is it the man in tails? Maybe, maybe he’s the guy with a forked tail her mother warned her about. Either way, she’s not going to bed tonight without a whole lot of cake on her fork. You couldn’t pay her enough to go to bed hungry.