The room is not dead with silence for hushed conversations come to life
Whispers direct the eyes to the shape that has stepped into the scene
They morph into topics, typical routine
"She cannot find a husband," they throw into the air
Watching as her ears catch them, they stare
At the naked left digit, so uncouth to be caught bare
"Why can't she find a husband?" they ask everyone but her
As though she should soak in shame since she stands without a sir
The aunties are first, of course they are; one knows a doctor, the other a lawyer, the third an entreprenuer
There's an accountant, an engineer, someone even slipped a pastor in there, if that's what she would prefer
"You're not getting any younger," they spit out like a slur
"You don't want to end up like her," they slyly point at the auntie blissfully minding her business and sipping liqueur.
"Your mates are engaged and married," they spell out, hoping to cast out her plans to defer
Right on cue, these mates materialise; one holds a babe, the other has one on the way, the third just got engaged on holiday, saying it all happened in a blur
She's happy for them, the questions peeled off their names after seeing their digital wear
Yet she wonders, who got to that position with the pace of a tortoise, and who, a hare?
And why must she get there to avoid isolation and despair?
So swiftly "Stay away from boys" sheds its skin to showcase "When will a husband be seen?"
Leaving no room to adjust, as if she were being operated like a figurine
She doesn't mean to disppoint, nor does she care, and if a ring were to find space on the right finger, it wouldn't be from a husband but a wife.