Marriage: Royal and Edith

Abstract

Marriage: Royal and Edith Royal's Story Like the small rabbits whose blood stained the swathes of hay I could not see the nests woven round hollow docks Below rusty seed heads, speckled eggs still nestled inside the rounded edge After the sliding blades cut. The horses stopped, Betty and Nell, chains quiet, Heads bent, lathered bodies welcoming a rest, as I carried a mother's treasure To the house as carefully as I cradled my daughter when her blood plashed my shoes, The crescent cut in her forehead matching the curve of the plowshare that almost killed her, but turned up treasure, too: Arrowheads, shaped white flint, sharp black, glinting in sunlight against spring furrows. I brought those treasures, too, for her, for you. She exclaimed. You Looked without remark, turned back to your distraction, never fully there. What else was there for me but work, or, failing that, the ring of stakes and shoes? Our lives hold empty air, words that circle feeling. My treasures were not yours. You shared none with me. Together in the same bed, we slept apart. So I, to pass the time, carried treasures stolen from another life. Arrowheads in white boxes on cotton beds stacked in the dining room cupboard drawer. Birds nests hooked above the freezer beside the snap-jawed traps and chains I now do not use. Worn horseshoes saved to, bell-like, clang against iron stakes. 50 Edith's Story They said Yd be an old maid, no boyfriend by twenty. When you bought my pie at the grange social, We sat together while you ate, talked, and smiled. I was too shy to make words. When you pulled into our driveway in your Model A. I could hardly believe my luck. The tongues, of course, said you married me because you must, but I was vindicated when the first Baby was four years coming. The first two years we played in father's second house. I dressed in your suit for Hallowe'en, we farmed, danced our Newlywed dance, until you and father argued, and sister Mary Claimed the farm, our house, our happiness. In your mother's house, I would not cut mold from week old bread. I baked fresh bread three times a week, watched as your body grew. With her, I cooked and cleaned, a servant still, careful of her orders, And told my daughters they could get used to anything. I had. I wanted time to read, to think, to write: to teach. I quoted bits of poems learned in school before I had to leave, needed To cook for mother, clean, feed stock. That poetry kept me sane, but How could you know my need? I watched out windows as you worked the fields, worried, but claiming my solitude, too. The accidental gifts you brought my day, Birds' nests, arrowheads, a flower from the woods, were poems of Your life, but I needed my own words, time to think. I was your partner, but your life was not all, so I claimed time stolen, And we grew apart. It was not all my fault, nor yours. No fault, truth be told. We stole, each from the other, to grow this chasm between our lives. —Patti Capel Swartz 51 ...