On the side of a back road
is where I lost my soul
to have and to hold
until chained to the days of old.
They dug into the treasury and bid me away
like a child bride with nothing to say
a mismatched perversion
a filthy conversion
all for the currency
to have a healthy piece of me.
Who would have ever thought I was born to her
like Jesus to Mary, frankincense and myrrh
I have no mother!
and it hurt like no other
I the offended should be paid restitution
over this shoddy resolution.
There had to be a way
to make it another day
he watches me day and night
there’s no more wrong and there’s no more right.
He rips me apart with no truer words
no one would want me, I’m trapped like a caged bird
this was the lot I was handed
and I grudgingly did as he commanded.
Sex ain’t no fun. All he wants is to have his way with me. His gruntin’ gobbler butterball shaped body is basting in his own sweat like a Thanksgiving turkey. He thinks he’s really some something, releasing his ancient seed into me.
That stupid smirk, and all for five minutes! Felt like an eternity to me. But mark my words, I’m gonna kill him, just you wait and see. And I’m gon’ make it look like an accident.
You see, this is all mommas fault; she sold me to the highest bidder without my consent. Lebon is a well off man, but I ain’t seen a dime of it. I suppose I’m luckier than other brides, captives as I like to call it because I was sold off at the ripe old age of seventeen. This is usually a death sentence for a girl, but my ole’ mom found a way all right.
For three years I’ve been shackled to this old goat. I’m more of a housekeeper and secretary than a wife. But I’ll let you in on a little secret, while I was doing my daily cleaning, I come across something I knew would help exact my revenge on the old coot. Can you believe the butterball has heart palpitations? He’s taking some kind of medicine that I can’t pronounce that keeps his heart steady. No wonder he can’t last no more than five minutes.
I’m gonna get what I’ve suffered for. I ain’t even lived yet. I’m here all day, by myself like a slave cookin’ and cleanin’, washing and ironing his clothes. And he sits around like a king on this throne lookin’ down on me for any misstep I make. He never misses a chance to remind me that no one wants me, not even my mother. But I got a surprise for him tonight. I’m still gon’ play the good housewife and give him what he wants, more than what he’s looking for.
You may be wonderin’ how I’m gon’ get all his money after I kill him. You know the old saying, never let your right hand know what your left hand is doing? Well, I never let momma know I can forge. I practiced everyday throughout my teens and when I was sold to butterball, I quickly learned his signature. He and no one else would be the wiser.
On another one of my cleaning sprees, I come across an accordion folder shoved in the back of a drawer. I rifled through it and there his will was, in his signature! How could I have gotten any luckier? And who kept a will in their home these days? Nonetheless, I found it and copied it perfectly on the hundredth try. I have it in safe keeping until the right time, and tonight is perfect.
I hear keys jingling at the lock as I’m in the kitchen plating up his dinner, and the sound is music to my ears. The door creaks open and in he waddles, straight to the dinner table and plops himself in his favorite worn out chair. The wood is buckling and splintering, only bamboo shoots could hold up his massive amount of weight.
I steal glances watching him shove food down his gullet, disgusting. How is sit possible to sweat while eating? But there he is happy as a kid with a pixie stick heading into a food coma. His eyes are beginning to roll into the back of his skull and his breath begins to labor. Won’t be long now before everything is mine.
He shakes himself awake, eyes glazed running over my body. Anytime he looks at me I have to force vomit to stay in my gut. I know what he wants and it makes my skin crawl. But I can endue it this final time. Pushing himself up, he rubs his meaty hands together and I silently pray to Jesus, Shiva and Zeus for this to be over quickly. I plaster a smile over my face like the doting wife I pretend to be as he pulls me to the rear of the house.
Our bed has a permanent dent in the middle, and I roll right in the center of it involuntarily. Watching him undress makes me want to gouge out my eyes. But I coach myself, it will all be over soon, it will all have been worth it. Just when I thought it impossible, the bed sinks another inch closer to the floor as he slides his weight on top of me. How unfair I thought, even the railings are suffering, struggling under his mass. This has to stop.
I manage to roll him off me onto his furry back and he’s in shock. Imagine what I’ve been forced to endure, I thought. I assure him he’s going to get what’s coming to him and there he goes just a squealing like the hog he is. I suggest we turn things up a notch by tying is arms to the spaces between the headboard. Of course he happily goes for it and I enjoy binding him up. Now for the moment of truth.
Straddling him is like climbing a mountain, I never know when I’ll fall off to my death. But I got my hips in perfect position and this is the end for him. No more than five minutes later, he’s huffin’ and puffin’ pleading with me to slow down, but naw, I speed up. His heart is racing a mile a minute. He can barely catching his breath. He’s thrashing around, eyes protruding from his sockets and I’m having the time of my life. I go and go until I climax. If I’d had known it’d felt this good, I would have killed him a long time ago.
Bless his heart, there he is laying in that dent in the bed lifeless. His heart probably exploded into a million pieces by the time I got off. I climb off him and shower leisurely with hot water, no soap. He isn’t going anywhere, I giggled to myself. By the time I call the cops, old butterball starts to turn purple. I at least have the decency to cover up his naked flesh and remove the satin scarf that binds him. I’d watched even television to know how to turn on and off the water works. So here I go running to the door to let the cops in. They ask what the problem is, I inform them that I think my husband had a heart attack.
They rush back and try to resuscitate him and soon paramedics flood the house. By now I’ve slid down the wall, a classic move of a grieving wife. A detective moves in to comfort me and assures me that everything will be alright. He asks if I believe it, and I nods yes. He then asks me how my husband came to be in that state, I tell him we were in the throes of making love when he suddenly stopped breathing. Making love, get a load of that! He clamped a hand over my shoulder as my now dead husband is being wheeled out on a stretcher.
I couldn’t have been more elated on the inside, but on the surface I cried and wailed buckets of tears as the whole police department swarmed through the house. The detective asks me if I’m well enough to accompany him to the station for an official statement, I nod and he gathered me up into his arms and carried me to his truck and placed me inside.
There’s no need to confess anything further, just know I got everything I suffered for and then some. After “stumbling” across my dead husbands will, all his money and properties are in my possession. I’m set for life and with the man of my choosing. After all the comfort and security that detective showered me with, his concern turned to affection. And here we are wrapped up in his sheets. I still have to pretend to grieve the loss of my dead husband but at least I have someone who really cares for me and makes me scream high atop the Appalachian mountains. I can’t ask for anymore than that because that’s all that I ever wanted-someone who loves me and values my choices.