Ogre Comes to Visit
The trials of marrying an ogre.
I wonder if Glumf comes from a mixed marriage?
It did not occur to me when I married him
that being the son of an ogre
the Ogre himself would end up in my house
from time to time for a visit.
If I had paused I may have imagined
the scene around the dinner table
with bloody shanks of meat and whipped fat,
the sweaty shoes by the door and the sweatier back
moistening the fabric of my brand now sofa,
and the suspicious yellow puddles left in front of the toilet.
You’d think I could have been prepared for the tedious jokes,
the coffee stains down the walls (note to self: buy more bleach),
and the fear that, if angered, he may wipe out the entire village.
He thinks I made the strawberry shortcake for dessert –
fresh whipped cream and all – because I’m sweet.
What he doesn’t know is that the scent of berries cooking
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