Girl Fawkes

by Felicity Marks

We were honeymooning in Holland,
in ’93. Guy would drink with the
Spaniards in the Hotel lobby, boast
his bravado like a king. I sipped
cheap champagne by the hearth.

It became tiresome. Like a child,
he would toy with matches at the
dinner table. He bought a microwave;
would sit and watch the turntable,
metal cracking to molten ash.

I suggested a walk, to clear the air.
He took a poker for a staff; support.
We had take-away that night, flame-
grilled from Burger King. I wept hot
tears for his heart of stone cold ice.

Guy took up smoking, a pale blue
halo drifting up to engulf his wispy
hair. I knew where he’d been,
could smell it on him, a stink of
suspicion. His burning desire.

Our marriage turned sour, like
a hot coal just smouldering;
burning out. “Adventure is
my middle name” he would
say – actually, it’s Thomas, but

I let it go. Winter came. I sent
a letter to “whom it may concern”
then waited for the call. There
were fireworks that night, I
can tell you. Hail Mary!

They tortured his soul, poor
thing, until he cried their names
as though that breath his last.
we cremated him. There’s
never smoke without fire.