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On Fire Down the Aisle (Asleep at the Alter)
by Holly Morningstar
Beauty wailed in A-minor
and pinched so violently
she had to be carried down the aisle.
Her tantrums echoing in the walls and
the great cathedral ceilings of the church
the local gossips affectionately called her Brat.
She was thrust into the arms
of her supposed sweet fortune
of a royal name and dark dungeon.
As one does a gift being returned to sender,
he cradled his wife awkwardly
as a brother would a sister.
The lace of the child’s white dress
contrasted vividly
with her angry, valentine red
face, eyes, and ears.
Like the scent of the lilacs strewn everywhere,
flirting with the aroma of the burning candle wax,
her rage deceiving her innocence.
She writhed against him
until finding safety
by nuzzling in his neck,
allowing the warmth to evaporate her tears
until they were no more than temporary scars,
puddles on dampened cheeks.
As an angel slept in her future’s embrace,
there were no vows
only the hushing, sing-song lullaby of the priest
and a growing stain of drool on the groom’s tuxedo.