Snowite (Parts i-iii)

From the point-of-view of the Step-Mother

It begins
in a red-lit pub
glazed with cigarette-smoke.
He sits alone,
eyes hung brown
thick with the gravy
of old love.

The froth on his beer
is drying
a watery ring
hugs the bottom
of his glass.

He does not tell me
of his daughter
her beauty
an echo from
her dead mother's womb.

Instead, he speaks of home
set down amongst bush:
the tall mess of stringy barks
and the tangled webbing
of his grief.

He doesn't ask for my number
but I press it to his palm
honing the digits
a tattoo
of my longing.

It is his arms
that are the first to love me.

Alone in the bath
I stir his kisses in
with lavender oil.


And so it happens
(the wedding)
flung yellow
with wattle blossoms
and his daughter:
age 12, a flower girl
with honey-suckle in her hair.

Our honeymoon
must include her.
A day in the city.
I trail in her wake -
her joy-high cries -
and lick drips
from the tip
of my ice-cream cone.

(To be Continued)

12 thoughts on “Snowite (Parts i-iii)

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