Blood Ritual

Monica De Bhailís

At our wedding, it was the parish priest

who first noticed the blood dripping

from my hand as we returned to the top table

from the cake-cutting ceremony.

A litany of superstitions escaped his collar

warning me a bleeding bride is not a good sign

in the eyes of the church. Or the laity—

my new mother-in-law in a flap about

the good hotel linen destroyed with my blood

as if it wasn’t enough I was forty-five minutes late

to the altar, drinking brandies in Sammy’s spit-on-

the-floor to steady my nerves, or was it my resolve?

It’s not too late, the bridesmaid said, but then we were

snapped by tourists and I knew there was no turning back.

I was a terrible bride, dazed by love and drunk on ritual.

I never even felt my palm gash, gush open

as you cupped my hands around the blade

and we scored, stabbed and sliced my mother’s moist

rich wedding cake, iced by Mrs Andrew Wade

in roses on lattice—suddenly marbled, open-veined.

Later, clinking toasts and your ardent nuptial speech—

your public declaration made me laugh, made me weep.

Guests circled and roared as we led the first dance—

our steps were bright stains on a bridal bedsheet.

MONICA De BHAILIS is a researcher and poet based in Dublin, Ireland. She is currently working on a first collection of poetry. Shortlisted for the Patrick Kavanagh Award and the Emma Press Pamphlet Award, her work has appeared in Abridged, Banshee, Cyphers, Mslexia, Poetry Ireland Review and elsewhere.