Better Than the Legal System

You didn't think
strength grew from your wife's
broken neck and stabbed heart.

You smiled
as three women grieved
while her coffin dropped
to it's entombment.

You didn't hear her call the names of
her mother, her daughter, and the woman next door,
yet they responded without the shame
that murderers thrive on behind closed doors.

They prayed for her soul to rise;
a signal; a band-aid for unfulfilled expectations.
They burned her wedding gown
and wished time traveled backwards.

Beyond the conscious
what you could see
their hands bonded in an energy
that left these women's bodies searching.

A week after your deed
you visited the dead.
A gravestone at her head.
Three sets of hands waited at her feet.

A fog covered you in a quick embrace.
The fog as thick as dried blood.
The shadows of boneless fingers alarmed you,
but no one phoned for your rescue.

What surprised you most
were the hands that held you tight.
The hands of women you thought were kind,
but when is kindness blind?

And you said,
It was my father.
And they said,
You are not your father.

And you said,
It was my mother.
And they said,
You are not your mother.

And you said,
It was my son.
And they said,
Your son wasn't there. He died in utero the third time you beat her.

When they released their grip they promised,
You will look behind.
You will want someone to understand
the fear of censure of predatory hands.

Only those who died at the hands of lovers
watched as you were condemned.

No human being could save you then.
After all, widower, this was not revenge.