A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

I blame you.
I blame you for all of this. 
What can you really expect 
from children whose father models
that their mother’s needs don’t matter?
That her distress is merely menstrual moodiness,
funny at best, annoying at worst?
That she can be taken for granted?
It’s simple you see, she loves you, 
and she will do more than Mother Teresa instructed:
giving until it hurts is a task for others, 
she will give until she is crushed,
broken,
poured out,
spent,
moth-eaten and covered in mildew, 
like the ghost of a discarded cardigan
that no longer contains even enough fabric 
to convince anyone it is clothing. 
Don’t say she’s your favourite. Don’t
play at the charades of putting her on 
and pretending you can’t see the damage.
She loved you.  She loved you past the point of pain.
She loved you past any faint cries of her safe word, 
that you ignored anyway.  She loved you past her hard limits,
confused as to why the man who swore he loved her
could not seem to notice that she was pale, 
bleeding out, even when he slipped in her sticky blood,
even when he held her: he complained
her skin was clammy, cold;
her pulse was weak. He saw
the very symptoms of her demise, yet failed
to make the diagnosis. And even when she lay
crumpled at his feet, begging him to save her,
save this, save them, before it was too late, 
all he could muster was platitudes and gas lights,
and she supposes they will outlive the feeble flame
that has burned up the candle whose wax was all the love she had to give.