And on our irrelevant wedding day you weeded the path and a hedgehog came by. I watched through the window as you crouched there, wed and unwed, still as a photograph, the trowel forgotten in your hand, hair newly cut, a suit and tie behind the door. And someone said, why is he gardening now? I watched you, was as still as you, could hear you.

Later that morning we married, but not before my mad aunt had got lost in a car park and I had decided that I didn’t like my dress after all.

And the path neat as a pin, making me weep and making me weep.




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Filed under poetic prose and prose poems

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