THE GROOM BLEEDS

upon the alter
of sacrifice
while his bride
bandages his side.
It's my period
of paranoia,
he muses,
as he watches
the priest work
the crowd
in the most holy
three-card monte game
this side of Times Square.

It comes but once
a month this roundtable
of sin: knaves & knights,
poker playing miscreants
wielding anvils
of despair.
"Marry for life!"
cries the villagers,
as effective as pigeons
ground in an engine's turbines.

There are women
who enjoy the hunt
every bit as much as men.
And there are men
who are better chefs
once the meat is cured.
It is not our business
who is fleeced
& slaughtered;
our only concern
is how we are led
into the pen.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015