Images

Images, 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. Images, 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. 1/23/2020