The Books of Marriage

Our minds are like books and marriage like a disorganised bookshelf

The Books of Marriage


Our books are mingled,
Hers and mine,
Messed up
Between each other,
Spine to spine,
Some never opened,
Their pages still pristine,
Some dog-eared and dirty.

My biography of Plath,
My Byron,
My poetry and art,
All so sublime,
Are hard to find
Between her tawdry fictions
And coffee-table tabloids
In lurid colours,
Her romances and her crimes,
Their lying evidence
Pushed hurriedly
Out of sight
Between the covers,
On which is always inscribed
The name of the one
She nominates
To take the rap,
As if this is fine,
As if 'She'
Had never authored anything,
And these left
Lying around the house
For me to pick up
And put back
In the same old place,
Every time...

One day I'll bin the lot!
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