Still There

I met someone from my former life.

She used to sing the laboured praise

Of her dapper, cheating husband,

And covered with expert makeup

The bruises he often inflicted.

She meddled in office affairs,

Brought me his traps, wrapped

In thick, juicy tidbits.

I saw her sitting by the far table,

Lost in her thoughts or fears.

I didn’t recognise her at first;

This city has not been kind.

The bruises were more evident now,

Deep tracks where once

There were only hints of marks.

I regretted my warm greeting

Soon as it departed my mouth.

She was effective and warm and loud,

Her hug a tad too tight,

Like good friends long lost.

I asked after the family,

Especially the dapper one;

Briskly, she proclaimed their good health

And counted her grandchildren.

She hadn’t touched her latte;

It was growing cold.

She sang her usual song,

Said he was getting old.

I asked how she was doing—

Quietly.

“His bruises are softer now,”

She said shyly. “He’s losing his strength.

The herbs I put in his soup

Are finally doing their job.”

She looked up at me then,

Eyes misty and wild.

She stood too suddenly,

Had to steady herself.

“I am getting him back,”

She whispered into my shocked ear.

“For all the bruises and pain,

I’m making him wither,

Dry up like a forsaken tree,

While I tell him stories of old.”

I could scarcely believe my ears,

But her eyes danced with tears—

Dams breaking after years

Of diplomatic holding back.

She flung her shillings on the table,

Made a flamboyant exit.

Once she was a demure wife,

Entirely good in another life.

But here, in this soft moment,

She had found her own voice,

Determined to be there still