Brachia

I chose this arm for you.
Woman, you married it.
A small party of priests
marked the gift
and pushed you forward,
stumbling
to grasp the blueing fingers.
I pushed a scalpel in for measure
(the sinew should tear
upon inauguration,
right on dotted lines).
Ah, woman, such contrition.
You will adore
the sound!
A rotten chicken wing cracking
from a scared breast.

Caveat emptor!
What for, this remorse?
Did you not practice your steps
daily
just like I told you?
What, what, your survival kit
of cliches, pulp and Bible
are in the bottom drawer?
Well, what can you ask for?
You are all tears and apple cores
and bitten bitter mouth.

Little woman, come now.
Convention is a confection
if you know how to wash it down.