Sodden Frill and Furbelow

The milliner makes me a cute hat with pins and mesh,

a cornflower, three sprigs of baby’s breath, a round of blue ribbon,

a straw base, and a delicate mound of wheat chaff. I pull on

my springtime dress and invest more than adequate time

astooped at your address with my gloved knuckles bashing dents

into the surface of your solid core door, which you painted such a deep red

that the entry to your world might draw the eye of even the reasonably

cobbled stone passer-by. And that was I. Oh, would that you could

adjudicate without a deeper counsel, not only before Judge and choir,

but to fill the thirsty buttercup like dew in a meadow

while the mourning sun juts along a gurgled stream. Had I the skill,

I would build a raft of creambush tied with marsh grass and padded out

with a bed of wild blooms upon which I would lay with you. I’d release you

from my tetherhook, allow the tear to well and watch the water

carry you from view. You’d become naught but a memory to me, bittersweet,

and against which future suitors would be measured. And when the Savior

draws you back from the blackened mouth, and kisses you with new breath,

I’ll be waiting back at my home, in the parlour as the sun lowers outdoors,

warm fire in the hearth heating my tea, my punctilious needlework

spread open across my lap. And when you crawl back from the depths

and pull so soft on my brass knocker, I’ll answer your call.

But here I stand, clouds building into a darkened morning, an insufficient dress

flapping in the gusty wind, already late for the morning service, but begrudged

to stop my beating. Had I the wherewithal, I’d release your ruddy barrier

from its blanched irons and blast it back splintered into your foyer.

But the carriages are creaking past to retrieve parishioners. I’ve my head stooped

as if in prayer and it strikes me that cold rain drives down

like a volley of milliner pins dropped from atop a cloud.