Left at the Altar by Felicia Lowe
I waited for you like I awaited death,
I choked on your ghostly presence that hummed all around a broken air conditioner
that reminded me of what disappointment felt like.
Sometimes I can’t help think that dying things aren’t so broken,
that the struggle is what keeps them alive.
I chose to understand your inner workings the codes of your undoing,
wrapped around horns of invisibility,
you knew mine all too well.
So, this is what waiting smells like, your criminal poppy fields entice
my mouth past your spearmint kisses, past your family’s old mustardseed
rugs, past the ticking clock which you joked was your tongue,
clicking, ticking at my pains of impatientness.
your mother smirks butt sticking out of the aisle, I didn’t know the devil had two children to carry
out the deed, her scarlet lips from your Italian sauce bare foreign seasonings that are poisonous.
I’d hate to send that wedding gift back.
So this is what waiting sounds like, your musky voice trails off into stories in my mind, that
your throat greets again and again, you chuckle like you need my advice but I think you know that the
unneeded metaphors are piling up. How much of my time is left?
You finally recoil into your throne of promises, will your golden revolvers shoot me this time? Or will I
say my I do to the priest and fall back,
a church turning to a court room,
is your fiancé guilty,
Yes, I do.
So this is what waiting for you feels like.
I know you won’t show up, I know this is goodbye.
I breathe in my last breath, sending my prayers to hell, knowing that you will get them in due time.
You are nothing but nostalgia. Shoot.
The deed is done.
I waited for you, like I awaited death.
I choked on your ghostly presence.