Bride

My faked death was the wedding
The liquor that embalmed the cake

As though she were gauze the gown
Her mounds sweet nurse her mounds

On the stairs, her thigh smooth thigh
And muscular the moon-illumined lace

For the mint not yet melted
She clutched my corpse

The Girl: I Corinthians I: xx.

 

English teacher, lemon cookie,

Lemon yellow Butterick dress—

 

Ovarian cancer

Twice

—Fire to a butterfly set.

 

Mother,

Her name like sweetness,

Robert Browning

On her breast.

Iron Pond

 

(I)

 

croaking frog, sinking like a paper airplane

beneath the faucet, your wounded foot

 

hum of dragonfly, no hint of accusation in your voice

I watched you slip--thrust out your hand

 

I grabbed your hand to pull you close, bend of cattail

I watched you slip, voice to wind

 

(II)

 

we whispered; I tried to turn the tape recorder off

croaking frog, broken glass, a snake lurked

 

somewhere worse where algae floated, a tadpole soup

we sat on the inlet, dangled our feet

 

our shoes off; you stepped on a broken piece

a tire spoke poked, cut your foot

 

(III)

 

out the spoke, you limped, but rehab

the croaking frog, song of infection, rust

 

you pinned the dragonfly, thought of rain

jutted wire, damage, frame

 

I stared out the window, watched it rain

while you refused, the iron pond