forty invites, perfumed and polished gold

forty minutes weaving a basket of two hands

forty years of creased eyes ironing wrinkles and folds

Slips, with a cane to the floor of the old, weeping man

Tall and broad, ticking the time, he sags under his cross to bear

around the neck, clumsily, clunkily, coffin-box black

If baby powder once clowned his face and

mussed his hair

grandfather shrugged beneath , a fact

on her day

rosied and butterfly-lashed, swaddled in newness

he swore her dove wings would not fray

a swear is filth compared to a promise

the nectar, honey, vileness of bells!

swaying, swooning, snaking down the aisle!

twisted grins, thorns, detectable tells

casted in plaster, of a mask, human as bloodied tile

warm velvet, a door of pure white

a wedding invitation is a straight beam

An upward tunnel of light

to her grandfather, it seemed

The channel of memory

punching nostalgia, like steel-tasting heart-caging words

“I know you don’t approve, but..”

penetrate though the chest deeper, more profoundly than a sword

Or a knife,

In forty quick seconds, twisted through the hearts of two

separated through an eternal chasm, one muddying life

this silence is new

At four PM on a grandfather clock, his cross to bear swung and pummeled both their hearts underneath