Roselyn died three months ago and
Kenny looked away quietly and fixed
his eyes upon Charlotte.
In her, she saw his Rosie at the Grand Canyon,
the birth of Angeline and Richard,
her orchid garden. Even her hands
had the same wrinkles in the right places.
Kenny was sure were he up to dancing,
as he normally would be,
she would know the exact steps.

Meanwhile, Charlotte is one who
always has her hair done up in curls
and looks like anyone’s grandmother.
But her fog is thick; she examines everything:
the plastic plants, the arm chair cover, the
hem of her skirt which she holds above her head.
It’s a problem to get her to eat for she shreds
her napkin and pours her apple juice
over the tator tots.

But on the couch, they hold hands
and she often leans her head
on Kenny’s shoulder.
So he gets his wife and Charlotte gets
a body to rest against,
and they are both young, naïve
newlyweds who we try not
to bother with reality.

01/15/2006

Posted on 01/15/2006
Copyright © 2024 Lisa Marie Brodsky