Gris-Gris, an online journal of literature, culture & the arts

Sale Day

by Kerry O’Keefe

In memory of a marriage

In the end there was thin tea.
A few leaves doing battle
at the bottom of the cup.
We braided ourselves into
a little oak tree doomed to shellac.
Love, as in Wal-Mart mantelpiece,
dammit, up there
next to the Valentine clock.
You, singing a song
in your mother’s voice,
(the one that came in a can)
as I soaked these ankles
in a gold-plated bucket of rigatoni
(just as the diet recommended).
Counting backward by two’s –
it was then
the moon decided to ham it up
behind the lamp post.  Saturday
and she thought nothing
of flicking the ash off my dream!
Singing off-key
into her pink megaphone:
everything must go…