Only by Miriam H. Harrison


as he exhumed her body, he
thought only of her, his
second Mrs. Chapman

she had been so lovely at
her funeral—again she had worn her
wedding dress, again she had held
a bouquet of blushing carnations, again
she had waited for his touch

he had wanted then to
hold her close—already it
had been too long, the house too
empty, his bed too cold

not long now—not long

there would be changes, of course—perhaps
a wider face, a rounder nose, a sprinkling
of freckles

he would shape her
anew, but her eyes—those eyes
that had drawn him in, captured
his heart, inspired his work—those
would stay as they
always had, always would

already he imagined her prancing
before a mirror, enjoying the newness
of her body, of her life

in time there would be the
wedding, the vows, the
third Mrs. Chapman

but to her—to him—she was his only


Miriam H. Harrison writes to keep her fingers warm in her Northern Ontario home, though she finds silly dances with her young son to be best for warming her toes. She studies full time, works on the side, writes when should be doing other things, and trains the dust bunnies to fend for themselves. Fueled by too much coffee and not enough water, she would have certainly collapsed by now were it not for her husband. Her fiction and poetry have appeared in a number of publications, and she is an Active member of the Horror Writers Association.

Published 2/11/21

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