Even now, I’d like to be held

By your caress, your foot out of it’s shoe,

Lingering along my leg,

Under the table.

What did I do

To bring you so far out of your way

To meet my wife and I for drinks after such a long day.


We were members of the wedding,

I, the preacher in choirboy white,

A mail-order minister

Who drank too much--

The voice of God, the groom would say.

And you were his second,

Hardly the usual best man.

You were the girl in every French movie,

Starched shirt with mourning coat and tails,

And black bobbed wig to cover your baldness

From the chemotherapy.

It didn’t matter what you did or didn’t have,

It was the red lips,

The sweet and sad smile

So raw.


And for a moment

You were the dark angel breathing life,

The dead drawn forth,

--I, something mythical, magical,




What hard work it was

To stand up before all with beliefs in hand,

With words written that even now catch

In my throat;

And how easy it was to fall.