Mrs. Peter Warburton Dreams of her Grandparents

C. B. McClintock

For JJR

They didn’t believe me when I told them

I never wanted to get married

because I was twelve when I said it

with all of the wild will and surety

of a girl at twelve.

So I wrote it on a piece of paper:

a contract, between my self then

and my future self, a pact

that stretched into the unknown:

“I do solemnly swear that I,

Allison, will never ever get

Married. Ever.”

And then my signature, still stiff

with the new knowledge of cursive.

I used to think they didn’t believe me

because of my youth, but now I wonder:

Perhaps they didn’t believe me because

everyone they knew was married

and perhaps they didn’t believe me because

they had been married for 45 years by then

and their marriage gave them, eventually,

the thing they loved the most:

Their marriage gave them me.

And even though I kicked down and against

Marriage as if it were a pursuer

chasing me up a ladder

or a bear

chasing me up a tree

(my strong, climbing legs pausing only

to kick it in the face

my heel grinding against its nose)

eventually it caught me

And I wed.

My wedding gift from them was what

they had saved without me knowing:

a frame, and in it

a simple slip of paper

a declaration worn soft

and signed by my small, sure hand.

By day I am professor of literature and women's studies and have been for fifteen years; by night I am a writer working in various genres. Most of my publications up until now have been academic in nature, though I have had several monologues published by Heinemann and performed internationally. My academic work in literature and women's studies strongly influences the poems published in this issue, which identify women only by their husbands' names but give them a private voice from underneath this name. I am grateful for the opportunity to share them here. I can be found on instagram @c.b.mcclintock.