Saturday, April 16, 2011

The Wedding Dress

He had moved his mother's wedding dress
time after time, from apartment to
apartment, city to city

Friend to friend, lover to lover

Until we found him hanging
A white apparition in a candlelit room
Acrid myrrh failing to mask the death-stench of shit

"A fruit on a loop," the cop called him

[Note: Inspired by an anecdote CA Conrad told on the Poetry Foundation's "Off the Shelf" podcast.]

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