The nights are distilled into unmentionables.

He comes home and stands over my bed. Candlelight

on my face is filtered through the stake holes

in his body. I am suddenly aware of love – the constant

dripping, the smells, the vulgarity of a husband

deprived early of his teeth. In the kitchen,

the axe and hammer are my austere companions.

He takes his bread with entrails, the remains of a severed arm.

My sister Jane, with a banged-up sword sticking out

of her torso, ate his heart one night while visiting with Mr Bingley.

A large spider lives in there now, spinning. A cobweb

covers the cavity. Never in any danger of falling out,

instead it lures in prey. What is the mouth

if not another orifice for hoarding foreign objects.

I darn his wounds, wipe the filth from his rotting toes,

recollect the moment he tied my hands and feet

on our wedding night. I am here to honor him. It is a ritual.
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