Saturday, April 30, 2011
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
I cannot save you this time.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
The cream-and-lace dress hangs
over a chair, waiting to be worn,
a little bit torn but still beautiful,
a little bit broken but still loveable.
Softly the violins sing, a serenade
or a lament? Walking down the aisle,
walking to new life as a bride,
or the bride of Christ. Is this new life
or a death? I don't know which
I'm pretending to be. Alone I pretend
to be a bride, but whose? Why
would they leave the bride alone
to curl her own hair, sob in that chair
where the wedding-death dress hangs?
The virgin bride prepares to lie
in her coffin, a slow walk down the aisle,
her last walk from the earth to her grave
in a worn-out wedding dress.