January 11th
the anniversary of my mother's second
wedding
I remember the inside of the small
church
my mother in a hat, unusual, with a
veil even;
it was somber,
my twin and I on either side of our
grandmother.
The marriage endured, a stubborn man
and insecure woman ensnared until
death.
My mother cracked
on the one hand, obsessing on
perfection
on the other, chewing on imagined
slights
she made puppets
she made large papier mache figures.
Her husband became the keeper, the
apologist
hustling her out of parties when he
keyed into her rising voice,
a stray insult she'd pin, or a rant
from the edge of guests.
He was slow, she often flew off,
hurling herself towards the river,
threatening to jump in.
Her magical world unraveled, one twin
dead
He puffed a cigar,
declared bankruptcy, was home too much
the only target of her malcontent, her
darts.
The bricks were maroon, the pews dark.
She married him to escape,
he loved a mirage;
they had good sex.
Can't ask a marriage to heal
a soul repairs on its own or not.
1/11 and 1/17/14
mhn
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