On your wedding day she will appear before you like a vision —
bedecked in colors, adorned in jewels, chains and piercings.
. . . . Bright virgin . . .young stranger flower.
No one will be able to take their eyes off her.
You will be intoxicated by your weariness, your horniness,
your ownership of her.
She will be timid.
You will not be timid.
Your friends will revere you like a home-returning warrior
after his conquest. You will seed many babies into your
chaotic, over-populated, hungry nation
with its holy history.
Sacred people will stand near you during the ceremony
(men, of course) extracting meaningless promises for a contract
with sole purpose to breed and please
the obtuse, old and obsolete in attendance.
You might love her at first sight.
She will love you at first sight.
But the festivities will be distant, empty-eyed —
the dances heavy-footed burdens
for the sake of enchanting Home land and its survival.
Then will come the time for the climatic conquest,
when you can remove her heavy coverings and
she will shed her jewels one by one — for you.
Her skin will be amber silk, her breasts will be twins,
her vagina will be tight, tight, tight.
You will fuck, fuck, fuck her until she begs for mercy.
(There is nothing quite so enticing as fucking a total stranger.)
She will weep and bleed for you.
And you will be in love.
You won’t notice or remember the old bitch
sitting on her haunches in the corner of the room —
howling and snapping at the universe with slicing cries. . . .
. . . . Without tears.
She will be there through the entire ceremony and
eternal nights to follow — moaning,
cursing her whiteness,
cursing her agedness,
vomiting up bloodied pieces of her shredded heart,
vomiting up her own bones — one at a time.