Monday, 11 April 2011

9/30 - Marriage Bed

Props to Erica Miriam Fabri for RTing the factlet that launched this poem.  She's got a killer poem from this.

(After Erica Miriam Fabri’s ReTweet of the following:
RT @OMGFactsSex:
In 1831, a 93-year-old man and a 105-year-old woman got married,
and both died of old age the next day.)

their bones creaked louder
than the door they closed onto marriage bed
crackled and spit more insistently than the
fire of too-wet wood replacing what used to be
circulation in the almost 200 years their
bodies had accumulated

cataracts made shyness an unnecessary
distration and perpetual cold rushed them
into nighttime flannels

if she could see better, she might notice his
skinny translucent ankles
if he could, he might take in her spider-webbed legs

nevermind these details
something inside them wanted to dance
remembered the steps yet
could not make the bones cooperate

still, he held his arms aloft
smiled missing teeth
she put her hand in his
and they waltzed to the percussion
of joints flames and heartbeats

they took clumsy turns
huffing puffing until
sudden fit of laughter
collapsed them elbows onto mattress

as laughter gave way
to gasps they realized:
they were no longer alone

he held her there
she sank into his arms
their breathing returned to normal
they dozed to flannel and tongues
dreaming spring flowers and picnics
like young lovers

like young lovers
they thought
if they died right this instant
in each other’s arms
that would make it true

they lay there
breathing ever shallower
slowing slowing
embrace growing cold and tense

the morning sun found their marriage bed;
they had not moved
no, they would not be moving again.

c. e. amato

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