The stars twinkle like the celestial zits
on the perfect, azure cheek of a young
actress sobbing the black & white
confetti from her snow globe face
into the creases of her grandma’s
yellowed, brittle, wedding dress.
An attic trip broke her eyes & she
spotted the best prop, but now she
has made a spectacle of herself &
not one camera nearby to expose it.
A woman drowning her tears in the
waves of grandma’s wedding dress in
an attic rigged with sentimental photo
albums designed to crack soft hearts.
She’ll wheeze on the dust until the phone
rings, and she’ll renew her weeping when the
message unfolding from a scared sister’s
voice about wet names on divorce papers
lacks a natural ending of any kind at all.
When the hives eke out from the old skin in the cloth she’ll long for
her life’s old fluff.
And when friends ask her, she’ll say she and her sisters are going through
“stuff just stuff.”
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