The White Ship (3) Poem by David McLansky

(3) Hospital Room

Her mother comes to wash her hair,
And ignores me sitting in the chair,
She moves about with sour chagrin
And wipes her daughter's sallow skin.

Pale witness to her nurse-like motions,
Her appliqué of soaps and lotions,
Her jealousy, her bitter gall
Drives me out into the hall.

My lovely wife had lived a slave
To her selfish mother's jealous rage;
I rescued her with love and marriage,
Our happiness denied, disparaged.

Despite my money and degrees,
Nothing would the woman please,
She used her daughter as a servant;
Into her Eden I came a serpent.