Saturday, January 18, 2014

writing, dreaming, writing thru the cold

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

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