Closet


After my dad died, you married me

beneath the tree from which the tire swing


still hangs whitely, spray painted for show

by whatever nuclear family lived here last—


he didn’t get the chance to see us go legal;

we didn’t even have to leave the state. I wore


a black dress— which gave me a waspish thorax,

which bore my ghostly legs—and I promptly


ruined it on the wash cycle. Its fastenings no longer

fasten. New grief, old dress, and the timeworn,


abysmal closet. We’ll be wed until they say we are not.

I’d break all of the bones to be safe with you in public.

Copyright © 1999 – 2019 Juked