The Bridegroom
Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem
He wakes up in the bridal bed. The sheets
Are white but crumpled. She is slumped beside
Him in a different sleep. Her throat pulse beats,
Recalling now his first full slickened slide
Inside her temple made of slime, his long
Last penetration of that virgin pink.
He looks about and feels that there’s something wrong.
It’s not the darkening stain of scarlet ink
Scrawled there that catches him off guard,
That white has been smeared there as sickly scar
Might look, but that his maleness has grown hard
Again as if she were removed as far
From Holy Matrimony as the slew
Of others he has fucked. Nothing was new.
~ Phillip Whidden