The Absinthe
2021
L’absinthe by Edgar Degas
On the day of our wedding,
he swore for me
to be by his side always till death do us part
whether it be in his bed, on the couch, by his work table
fetching him food, lighting his cigars
waiting upon his love.
Wine bottles clinked in celebration,
along with the whistles of his groomsmen
polite felicitations of my bridesmaids
as we rode off in the rocking, unsteady carriage
pulled by a dark, tamed mare
under the harsh snap of reins
into the world of marriage
in the City of Love and Lights.
Even as the years wore on
I never give my husband a reason not to love me
even if it’s exactly how our son loves his pet mouse.
My prettily weak features, delicate pink flush and white powder
on my nose, small and docile, dutiful and quiet
the ideal wife, you could say
whether it be in the common room, in the kitchen, in the nursery cleaning his house, pouring his drinks, handling our children
Just for his satisfaction at the end of a day, what more could a wife want? In return our marriage is perfect, even with the pipe always hanging between his lips, whiskey always at his elbow, he gives me affection
loving, pleased grins at my face whenever I refill his glass.
This happily ever after, this honeymoon period,
never let it end, may we live within it forever.
But I find myself with a different beloved on the side
I long for it more than I long for my husband.
I yearn for the way it slowly blurs my surroundings the way it makes my heart palpitates against fitted corset It’s familiar intoxicating haziness that washes over my head when I taste it on my lips
I yearn for the way the Absinthe just makes me forget the weight of the battered ring on my left hand.