I suppose because I’ve broken out
The finery – the candles, scented;
Bottled romance, glasses brimmed
As I, with expectation – that
You think I’m up to something. Something’s
Up. The crockery; a slice of torte,
Its corner pointing descriptively
To you, is such a telltale sign
That you can even taste it. Wine,
Sweet wine, and scents of music kiss
The air… how, quaint? I waited for your time,
To kick off shoes and grumble how
The whole deal went. And here I am,
Bringing out whatever I’ve been roasting,
Carving it up. You’re half expecting
Bunnies boiled like coq au vin, my dear!
You see the way I welcome you:
You dread to think what’s in the stew.
I’m aligning plates – you note the cutlery,
You clocked the knife – a rose delights
In a handsome empty bottle. I suppose,
I say, as I caress the plate’s white rim
And bite my lip, taste wine-blood doing so:
You’ve thought this day would come, have seen
Sweet threats before – but honey bear,
You married one. You married tension:
And dear, although we both adore Glen Close,
I’m simply happy that you’re home. I know
It’s cruel to loom, to seem so sinister:
But tell me that the warmth of bubbles, so
Luxuriant in our bath, won’t ease a smile.
The joke is, you’re entirely adored.
So yes, I’ve spun a home to ambush you:
The truth is, I have set a place for two.
Somewhere between delightful househusbandry and neurotic, bunny-boiling spitefulness lies marital bliss.