by S. Elizabeth Thompson
Later she’ll mention
that she should have cut her wedding sleeves
differently
but today she is content
to stand there,
which I’ve never seen her
do before. Always flitting,
always moving—her hands
expressing as much
as her mouth.
She doesn’t say much today
just “Thank you” and “Thank you”
with a smile. Her boy-faced
perfectly suited husband
insists on hugs,
no handshakes.
He proposed at five o’clock
Easter morning,
a proper rebirth
of two young lives.
She called at seven to tell me.
I refused to wake up,
said little,
and hung up when I could.
I don’t see them drive away.
I’m entertaining guests in the gazebo,
my black high heels propped
unladylike
on a table
telling them
how she gave me a tea cup,
one I helped her wrap
how when I turned to ask her
what I was to do with one tea cup
I realized she could no longer answer
my questions.
S. Elizabeth Thompson is a figment of her imagination. Being
such an illogical, immaterial individual, she would like to continue in
her ominous existence and thank, in alphabetical order, aa, HMP,
lnDialect, kapka, miss K, and oh!resolution for influencing her life
and writing.
