she falls to the floor with the umbilical cord of telephone. . .
my uncle Len shakes his head at our approach.
dad catches mom before she hits the payment,
a moan, “noooo” caught in her throat.
the reception line, not blissful,
not a wedding kiss.
heads hang, a tangled mess.
children near adulthood feel the greater loss.
down the hall, slow as if in a catacomb,
we move our feet in symbiotic dirge.
we stare into the whitewashed room.
mom’s feet held in cement.
it dries around my feet too.
i see his prominent nose -
no breath escapes from the bright sheets.
serious straight shoulders, glasses shield his eyes,
as if in disguise
slow dance with me, last dance with his wife
as her purse dangles from my hands
i did not see, did not watch
but now i wish i had seen their last romance
this wedding prophecy
would have a theme
the groom’s mother
would be taken next
as his son beheld his bride
why we must ask
but answers don’t come.
they only make the next one in line
tremble before time.
weddings and funerals arm in arm reflection,
yet Christ’s death and bride similar in projection.
Copyright © Kim Rodrigues | Year Posted 2020
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
to post a comment