The Day After the Wedding
Too new, too new, the twisty-ties between in-laws.
The setter pretends to bark at the plastic blown big
by celebration, scuffing between rooms and wives.
His cheeks strain. How to close the bag? I ruin
a television’s worth of answers between scuffs.
Don’t look now, I command. “I do” is too late
to halve feelings a room away, some other relative’s.
The plastic rears in the wind, the dog slinks to his place,
as neutered as ever. I bask in the afternoon
of emotion. Sticks will be thrown.
Her spirit zipped, Mom took on
a pronoun. Hey, sighed us to it,
the day for us is young.
Groomed monkey-best, newly
dudded with dirt, she leaves
sorrow in pockets that can’t
be turned out–and there’s the idiot
in the mouth too. A fly approaches
the mound and Voila! gets through.
Love coughs Get the Robitussin.
We’re not the last in the wheelbarrow
but her spirit runs thin as voile,
white in the wind, the dog
backing away, down tail.
We’re violins, we’re soft tissue,
what one lymph says to another.
She can’t be overheard or overjoyed.
A mullah next door, that wail, no other.
Terese Svoboda has poems forthcoming in Yale Review and Diagram. A Selected will be published in 2015.