This accident death
It clouds up,
another rain day spent drumming our invisible tails.
This is accidental—
my bride wearing that contraption on her head
my premonition
a man who will take her away.
Much later from the attic
recesses of heaven one recalls her voice
much more than her.
Blind me to this castle,
those needles, boxed atop her head
overlaid in colors like plaid
gifts from Christmas aunts.
We'll eat food from tin cans this year.
If the food's in the can
you're supposed to eat it, right?
She, my bride, is a jewel in a drawer
in a cupboard in a closet,
hopelessly lost, buried
in light.
My bride snips
a photograph
slips on the shape of horns near the nose,
fear the nose.
She twirls a feather between her fingers
and grins. She's way up at the other end
of the neighborhood. She'll have to be carried
back again. She lets me carry her.
This is accidental. She never lets me carry her.
previously published in Phoebe 55 (1997)
Copyright © Valerie Fox 2007 - 2008