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 soiled dress
and not the sudden utter dissolution
of the tender nape
where my tired boy's sweaty curls
once had clung as if pressed
in blue satin bows.

– Teresa Kiplinger 


Photo: Annie Spratt

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