The Consolation

The Consolation

He laid the bouquet in my arms
like I was a weeping pageant queen.
The cellophane groaned and
thorns poked as he 
leaned close to address a tear.

Aw, you’re a mess he cooed
as though I wept for a torn dress
rather than the sudden
utter dissolution of the
tender neck where my tired boy's
sweaty curls 
once had clung
as if pressed in a blue satin bow.

– Teresa Kiplinger 


Photo: Annie Spratt via Unsplash

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