The Three Wives of Chuck Taine
I married her after she died,
a widower on my honeymoon,
not something you easily bounce
back from. She told me, and
she told me of the android,
and the light that peeled back
her skin like an opening flower,
till the petals frayed, burned away.
How she walked together on a field of stars,
looking over her own shoulder
to where all things end,
each footfall more distant than the last,
till she separated from herself,
had to walk alone, had to stop,
rebound to another path
with her center missing.
Now she lies on each side of me,
and I bury her again, and adjust
my shape to fill the well
of our grief and joy.
I married her after she died,
a widower on my honeymoon,
not something you easily bounce
back from. She told me, and
she told me of the android,
and the light that peeled back
her skin like an opening flower,
till the petals frayed, burned away.
How she walked together on a field of stars,
looking over her own shoulder
to where all things end,
each footfall more distant than the last,
till she separated from herself,
had to walk alone, had to stop,
rebound to another path
with her center missing.
Now she lies on each side of me,
and I bury her again, and adjust
my shape to fill the well
of our grief and joy.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson