Margaret Marionette by Ayla Rogers

Margaret Marionette by Ayla Rogers

Our whole lives spent dancing through delusion--

How fitting, she should meet me in a dream.

I want us traipsing on much quicker sand--

Something to swallow up her stilettos,

To soil her satin gown and silk slip,

And swallow my sick lack of self-control.

Her eyes fixed on the sea, always scanning

The horizon for new ships coming in--

For sailors on luxury cruise liners

That would save her from this receding shore.

From my hairline, and wrinkled hands holding…

 The most extravagant whore I’ve taken,

Or the poorest excuse for a lover,

Or onto something stale like nostalgia.

All three of us know her intentions sleep

Inside that pretty little head of hers.

With the security of caviar

And platinum bands that read precisely:

“Till death do us part,”—not one moment more,

And savor those words more than the others.

Forty-eight and living under hospice--

That’s how I feel with her in my bedroom.

Not yet thirty, she knows exactly how

To make me feel useless and impotent--

To earn her keep with a comforting touch,

To make me miss my dearest Margaret,

And plead for release from my stubborn form,

Or some substitute death in the meantime.

Until we achieve the satisfaction--

The mutual goal of my funeral--   

I suppose I’ll be dancing from rafters,

To some heavenly distant melody.

An earth-bound marionette, a puppet,

Hung from the heartstrings of my Margaret.