|
Long |
1.
A singular surprise
with a sheepish tap
at my door;
I found the twist
of your ankle
lovely,
the knock of your knees
endearing.
You said,
“I tried to leave
but I missed you
already.”
My relief was
insurmountable.
Strange,
we didn’t hug
or rush into each
other’s arms.
I nodded.
You entered.
We sat side by side
in exhausted silence
on the couch
all afternoon.
When sleep intruded,
we threw a cushion
on the den floor,
embraced one another
for warmth,
the harshness of the carpet
somehow appropriate
on the last honest night
of our lives together.
2.
I stand next to you
enduring
the endless parade
of conciliatory
congratulations.
My cousin,
Kenny the Jeweler,
set the tear shaped diamond
I bought in Veracruz
into the platinum band
free of charge.
Your father resembled
the gray ghost
of the stoic Indian,
more wrinkles on his brow
than the saddest Shar-Pei
in history.
Disconsolate fixed smiles
for the gay photographer,
sharp brayish laughter
when Nana’s wheelchair
tore your watteau train,
these are the retrospect
memories fabricated
from second-guessed
afterthoughts.
Did we gleefully scamper
through a hazy sea
of blown soap bubbles?
Our tattooed Mercedes Benz
had gray plush leather seats;
Three cans of Dinty Moore
and four of Iams dog food
were securely tied to the
undercarriage,
your “something borrowed,"
an emergency tampon
from your mom,
and the new inflated appraisal
of the assembled ring you kept,
never knowing
the stone’s true worth
and origin.
3.
Long is the boredom
of the bible boy,
the dreams of a flower girl-
Short,
the first slice of cake.
Long is the zipper
of your wedding gown,
the aisle of the church-
Short
,
the intermezzo of our vows.
Long (and longer still)
was the year after our
last sincere night together,
when turbid hope withered
into the pluvial empyrean,
when masqueraded
lovemaking
became an unsolved
gangland slaying,
please arrest
the culprits responsible
the brokenhearted cry out.
Long is my sentence,
this innate inability
to forgive,
Short (and quick)
my expulsion
from Eden.
copyright 2005
Angel Uriel
Perales |
