The Bridegroom

Originally published in The Road Not Taken: A Journal of Formal Poetry, Vol. 3, No. 3

You laid there still and heard it all unfold
In the tomb where your lover and I mourned.
Did my death make your wanton blood run cold?

Beneath your balcony, his voice grew bold
Comparing you to the sun in verse well-worn
While I hid in shadows, heard it all unfold.

You promised to another what your father sold
To me. He was your rose, and I, the thorn
Praying for vengeance that night in the cold.

But your death no one could have foretold
From your side, the nursemaid refused to be torn.
You laid there still and heard it all unfold:

Hysterical fits, funereal plans, the old
Priest giving the eulogy. I was forlorn;
Cousin, your death made my blood run cold.

Yet in the monument, before the mold
Of death could mar your face, I could have sworn
I saw you smile. Did you hear it all unfold?

Juliet, you meant more than honor, more than gold.
As your husband, I could have been reborn.
You laid there still and heard it all unfold
Did my death make your wanton blood run cold?