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Ed DeMattia - In Unholy Matrimony

She left this earth today in a blizzard of pills and tears.
He pushed her to it, to the edge, and over.
No one left to mourn her except from afar; she had spurned all who cared.

I still don’t know why she told me about him, that snake Who tormented her with sermons on her wickedness while He writhed between her lovely legs.
In church, she sat in the rearmost pew at his insistence.
She had to stare at his bland wife and bland children,
While he ranted on the sins of man from the pulpit.
Once I held her, one time only, I caressed the cascade of Lustrous hair and sank into the pained eyes while she Spoke.
I begged her, I pleaded, I offered peace, but she said he Needed her.
He called her his Jezebel, she said, and she was to address Him as Ahab, her mighty king.
She was his whore, she told me, forced into depravity by His demands.
He ripped her clothes, she said, when he could get to her,
He dragged her to the floor and made her kneel to him.
He twisted her arms and pulled her hair while he pumped Her.
He made her squeal, made her bed, made her cry, he sank His teeth into her thighs, he bit her swollen lips to show Her how wicked she was, to punish her for arousing him. He couldn’t live without her, he said.
He couldn’t resist her ripeness.
Afterwards, instead of the softness she craved, instead of Holding her shaking loveliness, he stood there dressing While she washed him off her,
The scalding water lashing her while she vainly tried to Scrub away the latest abuses, the years of degradation, and Prepare for bed alone.
Not her bed any longer, his bed now he told her, his Fingers dug into her throat.
She longed for the childhood days when they called her Princess, and tucked her in, and read fairy stories to her, And she was warm and safe.
He stood there, tying his tie, straightening his shirt, smug And drained, until she said her evening prayer asking Forgiveness from his God.

And I offered… He’s a bad man, I said. You wouldn’t want me, she said, No one would. I am this minister’s whore; I am worthless Now, he demands from me what he dares not ask his wife for, Because then she wouldn’t be pure enough. ‘But you, Margaret, my Jezebel, are stained now, so nothing lost.’

He needed her, she told me, to remind him of his own Depravity, his own lust, his own transgressions, his own Struggle with his Savior,

And to put the feeling into his words.