Monday, February 20, 2012

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.

No comments:

Post a Comment