Wedding Toast
I am at a wedding
in Iowa.
She called to tell me
that the orange afterimage
from that afternoon five years ago
has filled her brain for the first time
in years.
I don’t have the heart
to tell her I am at a wedding
in Iowa
& that the memory of her sits
in the front of my mind each day
like a scarecrow in a corn field.
It wouldn’t break her heart
or anything—nothing would,
but I can’t bring myself to tell her that I
have stolen her likeness,
I have hired a gardener, someone to tend
the apricot trees she planted,
someone to prune the ashen dust
from the perennial flowers
that grow in her stead.
Each day I pick one,
and her hips move through the grocery store,
her laugh echoes in a vinyl booth,
her hand moves a pawn one square forward.
I stick it in the windowsill, right
behind my eyelids and slake my thirst
on tepid water.
None of this would break her heart, of course—
nothing would.
I don’t tell her about the wedding, the one
in Iowa, just in case.
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