The High-heeled bride as heroes:
a child in backyards chasing the wind
of her veil, on two left feet.
Some girls play with fire, light matches
under pressed skirts, eloquently bound
in lace. But she undermines gravity on
pogo sticks in bathing suits.
Anticipating the flood of her dress to
hush the race of barking throats.
She stands, under cloth and cross,
becoming the mirror that stands before her.
Silent, like the quiet city with little
to no flickering lights in the distance.
She has never belonged to that city,
so timely and old-fashioned. But this day,
it comes with tears from both sides of acceptance and truth,
and they are smiling.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment