Anticipations

Mewling, starry-eyed bride sweeps black rooks under the rug
for her White Knight. Bodies amassed
in the cellar, behind the furniture
portend of distant tribulations.

The babbling brook turned bitter
and rust red. His song clangs, a new chord saws
the air while bloodied linens
are washed-dried-pressed-folded.
Let no one say a housewife is not thorough.

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