Dear Joy (on your wedding day)
Your name is Janus, and you are not really getting married.
You make the right decision, today, pretending;
Though the months and years ahead
Will be the worst of your life,
Unless the worst yet to come…
What difference does it make?
I am grateful to you that I live
In this moment
Now.
Right here, right now,
Watching a mist descend
Into a valley filled with pines.
Soon, in my hand a glass of wine.
My belly full of lamb, and potatoes.
With thoughts of my precious ones
Who love me still, though they (and I)
Fear what may come from the crazies.
He was a good man before they got to him –
Those hags who thought they would sell you yet again.
Little did they know, you have a heart,
And a soul that could never dig for gold, like them –
Harvesting men like clams on a beach.
He was solid, until they hated him away from you
To fulfill their selfish agenda – that you make them rich.
That you marry the man of their dreams.
How I wish you could tell them “Dream on, hags.”
But you won’t, in your brainwashed sweetness.
You want them to love you and love him, too.
But they won’t, that feigned family.
Family values my ass! What a crock of shit they are!
Oh, how I wish you would have believed who you are,
But you are too kind. You are too pure. Too rational.
Too quick to belief all that you are taught about the world in school –
That perfect world in which people, regardless of position,
Actually do their jobs only to the extent that we assume.
Too duped into the lie that a government of the people
Could never betray a child to such evil as what you endured.
But they did. They betrayed you. And they will continue
As long as you remain a fantasy.
You are too in love with love, of which they have none,
Those wretched evil wenches who exploit you for their daily bread.
I know what they are about to do to you,
And I know you will forgive them – but he won’t.
Your husband. Drunk and stoned today so that he can
Fathom the sick and twisted plans of la familia’s clientele.
He knows, and it makes him sick. More sick than he has already become
Because of them. But he pretends that all is well since that’s what the jet set do.
He loves you, almost. At least as much as he is capable.
He doesn’t want to father your children.
He believes you will not survive to raise them,
And he is almost right.
But you, sweet Joy, are Love.
And Love conquers all.
So thank you, Love.
The sun is about to set
And this bottle of wine
Begs an opening line.
