Poetgal

She’d got this far,
fuelled by the fumes of lilies
and familial pride. And then
like a hand on the shoulder,
something held her, icing-smooth,
this too-young bride.

Just a moment’s hesitation,
but we felt it: the worrying
question mark, the discomfort
binding us with silence,
a taut, stone nothingness,
the seconds of slow motion before
the parachute opens, dead air
on the radio. Troubled, hanging.

From stuccoed tributes on the walls
we sensed the anxious shifting
of arthritic bones, heard
the whispered warnings in
the still, steady wheezing
of the organ. Quiet, attentive.

A silk rustle, a tiny cough.
All eyes on her. Like nervous birds,
petrified, alert, we waited, counted
the pearls on her dress and the
stark tick tocks of watches, hoped
not to see what she saw:
the yawning future of

moments just like this: making
lonely decisions in cold places.