I Held My Tongue

I knew the first day,

when you tagged along

with my daughter and her father,

turning it into a date

with you.

I held my tongue.

I knew, more deeply,

that first holiday season

when you left the child

out of Christmas.

I held my tongue.

It resonated deeply

in the marrow of my bones

when Bridelzebub

registered for everything,

forty years of not being chosen

under the veil,

above The Dress:

bodice beaded and sequined,

strapless fabric of youth.

No invitation to speak given

before the vows.

I held my tongue.

The child included

for photographs,

not family.

The phone call,

spitting my name

a dozen times per minute

like poison. For you,

it’s bitter medicine.

Don’t worry, I’ll be there

when the baby

throws the bathwater out.

My tongue has been

liberated by your lies.