Retrospective
…Yellow.
Red.
Red.
Red.
Like her lipstick—when she would lump it on before
greeting New Year’s guests at the door—
Or, worse, the hues of the loud, ostentatious flowers
splattered o’er her 80s-style thrift-store-hand-medown frock—
The eggs at Easter, and—(and!)—
My glutinous tongue after stealing sips of her doctorrecommended Gatorade—
The corner of her eye—the corners nearest the edge
of her nose, I mean—
The meat she would mash, split, and mutilate in the
kitchen—
Her towel—toothbrush—slippers—and her
sometimes Downied sometimes Snuggled and
occasionally Bounced robe—
Her crackling homemade candles.
The wine!—
The stove when whistling with tea—
Half the glow of Christmas—half of the candy canes,
the stockings, and all of about one-third of the
ornaments—
Slightly the color she always wanted her hair.
Her comb—her throw-up bucket—her turban—
The button she pushed when in pain—
The altars of the Orthodox church—
Her blood—
And what I imagine morphine would be—should be—
because “clear” doesn’t suit—
Green
Just around the corner—Left turn signal—Swerve,
swerve—
SWERVE
Switch lanes—
Right……….left…straight…the next left? No the one
after—
One more left—the greenery is seen—
The quiescent grounds well-groomed as she is—
As I burst open the doors, and internally bellow “I
OBJECT”—
Prostrate in her enrosèd bed,
The 18-years-later groom glued above her, refusing to
acknowledge my presence.
And I—
I—
Dash to the girl in the flurry coat
And demand that she wipe her insincere face
The droplets will emerge—
Grow hot—condense—freeze—and enliven once
again—
But I—
I!
Am late.