Murmurings of Married Women

 

I hear murmurings from the graveyard

In the West of the town, 

Of married women, 

Dead and disappeared years ago. 

I wonder what a time they had, 

What a life they lived. 

Their husbands weep and weep and forget them, 

They praise how they looked after their women, 

Covering in glittery gold, 

Buying them silly silks, 

Giving makeup for a make-over. 

But still, the women murmur, 

Their voices seem to break the edges of tombs. 

They force the sun to dry out the flowers on them quickly. 

I lowered my face and listened to the tombs, 

It seems their lipstick was revolting, 

Their eyelashes lifted to show the desperation. 

They talk about the lies they had to live through, 

In fear of strangers' pointing fingers on getting a hint on their unhappy marriages. 

They call out their abusive partners, 

Told me to look for the broken bangles behind the kitchen for proof, 

The blood-stained clothes that were never washed, 

Lay hidden from neighbours and relatives, 

Who praises the happy couple photo hung on the wall, 

Little do they know about the beast in the men, 

Who beat them up all the way to the studio for being late,

How they hid their wounded hand from the photographer. 

Some told me the stories on 

thrown away food, torn shirts, broken plates, abusive friends, and an endless list of sacrifices, 

That can be turned into an epic poem. 

All of them died of pretension

Of many years, 

Keeping up with everything

For others, 

Forgetting they too breathe, 

They too deserve love, 

But the beasts never allowed

Or changed, 

And the beauties start to fade away, 

Cursing themselves, 

Forgetting their names, 

Hiding behind kitchens, 

Breaking like a glass. 

But they continue to pretend, 

even in their tombs, 

As obedient corpses of respectable men, 

Who receive beautiful roses every month, 

And a pretentious kiss, 

which the women use to prepare

Graveyards for their beastly men, 

So the gates of the privileged otherworld would be open for them. 

A. C