FOR BETTER OR WORSE
Kurt Nimmo
Another time
I took the marriage license
off the wall
and smashed it.
She had it framed
after we did the justice
of the peace thing and hung
it on the bedroom wall.
There's no justice,
certainly no peace, and I smashed
it. She began to cry
and that's when I wanted
to kill her. I nearly yanked the door
off its hinges instead. I was
a one man destruction crew.
She cowered, marked with fear.
I had poured out
all of the booze. I had an idea--
splash booze all over the house,
bar the doors, and light
the place ablaze.
I kicked a hole in the wall instead.
It was a nice round hole
filled with darkness,
too small for me to crawl inside
of and hide. She cowered,
sobbed. For better or worse,
the magistrate had said.
I do, I had answered--
even with the bottles of gin
and the chronic unemployment
and unpaid bills and taxes due
and credit cards jacked sky-high
and three dollars and ten cents
in the checking account.
I do, I answered.
I now pronounce you,
said the magistrate.
He had green eyes, closely
spaced, and a wax-
skinned skull.
I do, forever. And then
I smashed the marriage license.
It sat there, worthless and broken,
and it did not ask
for my forgiveness.
