Her, with her white-veiled smile, looking up at me.
Him, with his unlikely carnation. Shifty eyed.
The football-shirted pageboy,
flanked by two pink princesses,
sulkily kicks an invisible ball
The mum and dad wouldn’t come.
Too young, they said through tearful, pleading eyes.
I pray to god to bless this union,
Though secretly my heart despairs.
Friends cheer as they briefly kiss
Back down the aisle in the meringue inspired, empire-line dress
To the waiting limosine,
Back to the waiting council house clothes,
and the soon-to-be occupied nursery.
To the terraces of silent acceptance.
Five kids and many beatings later,
before she’s even 30, I’ll see her again in white robes.
Nicotine stained fingers betraying her killer
as surely as any pathology could
Friends sigh, and turn their faces, as she glides away
Copyright © Kaye Locke