Truth About Poetry. (Ongoing)

The Bride.

I met her on her wedding day. Walked up to her and smiled....

Back home,  no one ever talks to the bride.

So i thought I'd try something new thinking i could break tradition.

Hinder patterns wrapped around her wrists and climbed up her arms spreading blossoms on tender flesh
her lips were a wilted crimson tiled ever so slightly to the side.

The perfect almost smile.

The first thing her mother thought her was how to wipe the tears before the blood dries.

Shredded knees heal but shame never fades away.

Don't climb trees or ride bikes; that's how little girls loose their virginity.

She sat on a porcelain throne beads and bows hold the plastic flowers to the arm rest.

"Are you alright? " I asked.

"I shouldn't cry" she said fingers catching tired tears.

"How long have you known him?"

"I don't."

She was seventeen years old just graduated high school and her parents sent her to college because an educated girl can fetch a bigger dowry

but this mister didn't mind the country girl,

he grew up with her father!

Didn't need an intellectual just someone to feed the kids while he raised them.

She was a mail ordered bride and her father licked the stamp.

I cried.

I cried.

How many weddings have i been
to,  she just got off the plane twelve  hours ago and they already started dressing her, no time to make mesurements so they pinned satin to her skin, tucked her into the time tested wire frame.

Our ancestors welding

If you put a girl in a silk corset you'll never have to hear her scream

and she was gorgeous

she was gorgeous.

You could put anyone in her dress and it wouldn't make a difference

because we are guests of the groom and
this was his wedding!

No one knew her name!

She only spoke Arabic, 

no one knew her name!

And she danced

untill the tears came.

and the middle age used to be brides explained in a way

"She remembered her mother" they said.

"Brides always cry when they remember their mothers"

She'll have her fifth child by thirty.

My parents protected me from all the broken men and all their flesh eating fingers

told me that one day when the time is right, I'd find someone who could cook as well as my dad when he was almost  as smart as my mom

they would hold me so close so i could breath in their memories.

When i told my parents about the bride, all we could do was hold that girl's hands and apologise for the things that our fathers thought us to our mothers mouths.

It killed me.

Tonight, he'll crush the ridges of her spine with the same hands the man next door threw at his wife lady Thursday.

The same fist that taught the daughter to keep her mouth shut.

He'll crush the blossoms around her wrists and she'll hold her tongue.

Bite the screams as they come.

Wipe the tears before the blood dries.

No one ever talks to the bride.

The Bride
Emi Mahmoud.