"Are you a witch, or are you a fairy,
or are you the wife of Michael Cleary?"
— Nursery Rhyme


I'll wait until my Bridget reappears
among the bitter grasses which were fed
to that deceiver, writhing in our bed
and pleading, "Michael, I'm your wife!" The tears
she shed seemed almost real and when she bent
to kiss my landed fist, a bruise of doubt
began to spread; a hopeful bleeding out
of my desire to drum her punishment.

But in the end I saw the creature's eyes
reveal the change beneath my darling's skin.
Those blue-green buttons, once so calm and kind,
went wide; the lids, like lips, made silent cries
when by the hearth I poured the paraffin
on one who never truly knew my mind.


This poem originally appeared in The 2005 Grolier Poetry Prize Annual.