The Well-Nigh Widow

The following pantoums were found in the diary of one Judith McCluster (née Stuart), recovered from a hidden compartment within her dressing table at an estate sale in Beaufort, South Carolina. They have been collected, curated, and digitized for posterity. Be advised: her vocabulary, while quite extensive, was unbecoming of a woman of her time—as was her lifestyle, actions, and general outlook on life.

 

April 23, 1865

 

Fuck, McCluster’s coming home!

The war had ended much too soon.

I quite enjoyed living alone.

The wine, the laughs, the nightly grooms.

 

The war had ended much too soon.

I’d start another if I could.

The wine! The laughs! The nightly grooms!

Death didn’t part us as it should.

 

I’d start another if I could, for

I quite enjoyed living alone.

Death didn’t part us as it should—

fuck! McCluster’s coming home!

May 14, 1865

 

Perhaps I should host a soirée.

Is that what decent wives do?

I'll be the leading lady in his cabaret,

and whisper "I love you."

 

Is that what decent wives do?

Oh! I could invite the boy down the street,

and whisper "I love you,"

and ask him when we could meet.

 

I could invite the boy down the street.

I'll be the leading lady in his cabaret,

and ask him when we could meet.

Oh! Perhaps I should host a soirée!

June 8, 1865

 

He thrusts, and thrusts, and thrusts again.

The pillow conceals my yawn.

How boring are the pleasures of married men,

when the thrill of the chase is gone.

 

The pillow conceals my yawn.

There’re boisterous slaps, but not a peep.

When the thrill of the chase is gone,

all I want is to fall asleep.

 

There’re boisterous slaps, but not a peep.

How boring are the pleasures of married men?

All I want is to fall asleep,

but he thrusts, and thrusts, and thrusts again.

June 10, 1865

 

We must hide our smiles from the crowd,

let not our eyes betray us,

boy whose rapture was so loud,

and appetite, tenacious.

 

Let not our eyes betray us.

My corset hungers to be undone

–and its appetite’s tenacious–

but this desire must go unsung.

 

My corset hungers to be undone,

boy whose rapture was so loud.

But this desire must go unsung,

we must hide our smiles from the crowd.

 

July 29, 1865

 

Variety is the spice of life,

a famous poet had once penned.

But what's more bland than a loyal wife?

The only verse I'd like to amend.

 

A famous poet had once penned,

a brain of feather, a heart of lead.

The only verse I'd like to amend:

I'll be a spouse in the sun, and in the moon, unwed.

 

A brain of feather? A heart of lead?

What's more bland than a loyal wife?

I'll be a spouse in the sun, and in the moon, unwed,

for variety is the spice of life!

August 8, 1865

 

While my husband was sleeping,

we snuck into the sitting.

My lover’s mouth was creeping;

his tongue was never quitting.

 

We snuck into the sitting,

though I sat upon no chair.

His tongue was never quitting.

I gasped, but not for air.

 

While I sat upon no chair,

my lover’s mouth was creeping.

I gasped, but not for air,

while my husband was sleeping,

January, 12 1866

 

I don’t know whose it is,

but I know she’s coming soon.

My stomach’s bigger than his,

and I’ve seen less blood than moons.

 

I know she’s coming soon,

I can’t hide it any longer,

I’ve seen less blood than moons, or

the butcher, the surgeon, or the warmonger.

 

I can’t hide it any longer,

my stomach’s bigger than his!

The butcher? The surgeon? The warmonger?

I don’t know whose it is.

February 7, 1866

 

“Help! Help! My husband’s been shot.

He’s blue as a trout.

His breathing is not.”

That’s what they’ll hear. That’s what I’ll shout.

 

“He’s blue as a trout,

that love of my life.”

That’s what they’ll hear. That’s what I’ll shout.

The sorrowful cry of a sorrowful wife.

 

“That love of my life,

his breathing is not!”

The sorrowful cry of a sorrowful wife:

“Help! Help! My husband’s been shot.”