a poem a day for a year #244

by Amy Turn Sharp


I pulled my hands and fingers across the brick wall outside of the church. I was talking to you about the architecture of marriage. Hefty things for a funeral I suppose. We found a moment of laughter though, it came forth and just shook us. We only had a few moments to take it before our faces turned southern and the loud spin of the city reminded us that this was happening. This was a sad Simon and Garfunkel song all the way down my spine. This was the end of something. A car speeding away. An old photograph.
I almost wanted the rough masonry to cut me, so I could concentrate on that, instead of this.
I almost wanted a bleeding hand to take to you. You could wrap it up and kiss it so gently.
You could tell me everything was going to be fine. And I would give it all away to still believe that.