Tuesday, August 24

i am sure


I am sure you will storm into the church,
so I will go blindly. I see the doors painted white, your suit
In mind's eye- the kinds of things they write on headstones. May, June, July.

Forty, fifty, sixty- until my sentence
is complete. Those big white doors never open,
You never look for me. Leaves fall from trees like gold coin.

As for me, I had nothing white
nothing blue, nothing borrowed, nor physically true. Fall is a relief:
the summer nuptial season is, like a modern marriage, brief.

On a closet floor I tied my eyes with red
And looked upon those double doors, clothes dangling on hangers instead
Of draperies and vows, trinkets to have and hold. I resolve to grow old.

Like autumn I shed something. You were sleeping as I swept
The pieces off the floor. Standing in this doorway I am held by both hands.
You do not intercept.

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