The Betrothal

“My mother.

The common axe

pierces, singing…”

~ D. Bonta


What’s your lucky number? Let’s play it
at the lottery. It’s Sunday. It’s the day

the boys peddling tickets line up
outside church, vying for the attentions

of the faithful. One ticket? Two?
A whole row, a page, a winning booklet

could get you anywhere on this sweet earth
short of that paradise in the afterlife.

Let me put this ring around your finger.
Don’t balk. Spend it all, spend it now.

Tie your wrist to a balloon and float
above the park’s green periphery,

above the rows of houses in the town,
with their lopsided chimneys, their peeled

fences, their cracked trash bins and
dilapidated windows. The curtains

might be yellowed but look
at all their lace, those looped

edges made somehow more beautiful
by the stains of time. Come back at dusk

and let’s drink from the fountains
which have not yet run dry.

Put your hair up and tell each day
I love you again, no matter what.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Plaint.

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