Comparative Tranquility

You wonder if she knew from the start,
or whether it crept up on her.
Because of course she knew.

When he came home late the first time,
pushed his lips gently into her neck
and slept like he'd earned it,
one arm slung over her like a strap,
did the perfume and metallic smell
fill in the blanks, or were they left
pencilled on the side?

Did the mists clear
as she trudged puddles,
armed to the teeth to persuade
some girl who’d said some things
that no, it hadn’t happened
or at least it could have been another man.
Dark, hard to tell. Yes, yes,
leaving the law’s starched hand
hanging, scrabbling, finally
thumping the table.

Her husband slept that night
like moss on a rock,
as she stripped off rain layers
and slipped in beside.

Did it take until divorce day?
No clues? No sudden swipes?
Did he ever hold up childhood, the broken line
between father and sister etc.
as mitigation for a soft prick
during tender sex,
clean marital sex?

You wonder if,
years before the final police knock
shattered breakfast in her bedsit,
she looked out into the garden,
saw him
standing, smiling.
If she thought at first that he was in love
with the musical of blooms
until she saw the squirrel,
limp in his hand,
a thumbprint in its neck.

You wonder if she saw the spreading stain
even then, and said nothing.