Dear Isabella

• Henry Kent, Grade 12
• Poetry
• 2012

Dear Isabella,
Shall I compare thee to
My wife?
If I did, my next move would be pretty obvious.
I’m sick of looking after the twins; sixteen and still in diapers.
Baggage she picked up from her first marriage.
I’m sick of the feeling that I’ve settled for this life
Instead of chasing my dreams.
I could’ve had my own studio, ‘Bell!
Instead, I’ve got a wedding ring that I have to take off at night
Because it cuts off the circulation to my finger.
She calls it security, tells me I would have been a bum
On my own, but anything
Would be better than this.
I’m leaving.
I’m never
Wearing that ring again,
Changing a diaper again,
Settling for less
Again.
I can’t wait to meet you.
You’re really pretty… From your photos.
You’re really nice… From your emails.
You’re really fun… From your evening texts.
Are you who you say you are?
I don’t care.
Anything
Is better than this.