When Jenny saw Joe’s big nose
and vein ridged hands, she knew the house
and farmlands he owned were worth sacrificing
any harboured thoughts of love
that survived the 18 years of tribulation
life had dished her.
Her idea of love began to fade
first when her uncle’s hands parted her legs at 8
and removed the underwear her mother had bought
the Christmas before. Love weltered and shrivelled then
never returning to the tales of happily-ever-afters
her mother read to Ms. William’s daughters,
whom she cared for in the house on the big hill.
Life and love stayed muddled as she grew
into her teens, where the hands that rummaged her
multiplied as village boys caught wind of the timidity
that left her vulnerable; a pawless cat
among crazed dogs.
When Jenny saw Joe’s hands and the works
thereof, she knew she could live without love,
that she could settle for loving the security
that living with a man two times her age would bring.
If she were Joe’s woman, no other man would
risk losing his hand to Joe’s machete.
So when Joe asked her to move in and keep his house,
she didn’t think long before consenting.
Three years and two children later,
Jenny is still with Joe, still without love, content
with the occasional slaps to the face
and critique of her homemaking skills.
She reasons that at least he’s only one man,
and slaps that come with food and a warm bed
beneath a sound roof can be lived with
when the alternative is considered.