'Til Day Do Us Part by Donna-Marie Riley
Every now and then, the sun comes out and proposes to me.
I, being stubborn and bored of its many visits, say no and go
back to french-braiding my hair. “I am already wife to the
moon,” I tell it, knowing exactly its weak spots, its insecurities. It
is true, anyway. I am married to the werewolves and the old
trees that come alive at night, walking between one another,
speculating on the initials carved on each other’s bows. I have
a ring of cigarette smoke to confirm my commitment. Even
when it dissolves, the smell clings to my finger— so
sentimental. I like it in the cold rivers while the frogs croak and
the dark clothes me, a jealous lover not wanting the stars to
wink at my breasts. It is most comfortable outside when all the
clocks in the world say I should be in bed and the wind is not
opposed to exhibitionism.
In fact, I don’t even like the sun. I only want it to like me so I can
become russet coloured and inspire everyone I undress for.
The sun is too pushy, looking to expose me. The moon got my
“yes” by not asking for it, by taking my coat and hanging it off
telephone wires. It understood I’d leave sometimes, go hunting
foxes with bare hands, and it promised not to pry, not like the
sun, which tries to fill every recess around me, keep an eye on
my activities. “I trust you,” the moon said to me once, and while
I don’t advise it, it paid off for Her.
Every night, I become solid silver.
Donna-Marie Riley is a young poet from Brighton, England. January 2014 saw the release of her first poetry collection Love and Other Small Wars, published by Words Dance.
Every now and then, the sun comes out and proposes to me.
I, being stubborn and bored of its many visits, say no and go
back to french-braiding my hair. “I am already wife to the
moon,” I tell it, knowing exactly its weak spots, its insecurities. It
is true, anyway. I am married to the werewolves and the old
trees that come alive at night, walking between one another,
speculating on the initials carved on each other’s bows. I have
a ring of cigarette smoke to confirm my commitment. Even
when it dissolves, the smell clings to my finger— so
sentimental. I like it in the cold rivers while the frogs croak and
the dark clothes me, a jealous lover not wanting the stars to
wink at my breasts. It is most comfortable outside when all the
clocks in the world say I should be in bed and the wind is not
opposed to exhibitionism.
In fact, I don’t even like the sun. I only want it to like me so I can
become russet coloured and inspire everyone I undress for.
The sun is too pushy, looking to expose me. The moon got my
“yes” by not asking for it, by taking my coat and hanging it off
telephone wires. It understood I’d leave sometimes, go hunting
foxes with bare hands, and it promised not to pry, not like the
sun, which tries to fill every recess around me, keep an eye on
my activities. “I trust you,” the moon said to me once, and while
I don’t advise it, it paid off for Her.
Every night, I become solid silver.
Donna-Marie Riley is a young poet from Brighton, England. January 2014 saw the release of her first poetry collection Love and Other Small Wars, published by Words Dance.
