Tuesday, June 2, 2009

Molly Gaudry


is a sort of cousin to the feeling of the squeezing of a heart

think of our long summers and how we romped all over and through those groves and brought back over the years how many baskets of citruses we halved and squeezed until their juices flowed

ran down our chins

we could have macerated but we squeezed instead

when you left I gave up citrus

turned to the task of sewing for I could not bear the taking of a knife to cut a thing in two

to milk it like the tearing of a leaf along its veins until white beads emerge

could not bear

to bleed it like a cow or deer

and the idea of binding two or more parts to make a whole thing

to put together

stitch by stitch

became a way to remind that there are things in this world for which I could be grateful

which is not to say that my heart did not feel strained

or that what remained was not pulp


when you left

I gave up the piano too

the actual direction of my life being a mystery until then

I suppose you could call what followed a mission

I sold everything

put the money in a purse

and threw it from the window


I closed and locked the window

reached to touch the carafe on the table

bent to smell the red roses from our anniversary

and slipped away

from then on I worked as a seamstress and lived in other peoples’ homes


it is a series of choices we make that determine whether we are leaning toward steady


or gracious

or whether we will be remarkable

because we have found courage

these answers are buoyant in the air

same as the smells of the open stomachs of the lambs after I slaughtered them

is it any surprise that after our return to the modern world and after those red roses for our anniversary those red roses in that carafe those red roses’ petals scattered on our bed with pink and white candles and how red roses red roses red roses and always with the roses and why not ever just a simple red leaf

but that was always the way with you

so was it any surprise that I turned to sewing

and eventually to making lace

and many years later to the making of fine Italian lace


after a particularly bad storm I went outside and brought in all the flowers whose heads hung at crooked angles and with leftover thread that my employer could not possibly have missed mended those broken necks

it took all night

and in the morning I was exhausted

but that was the most beautiful bouquet I have ever seen

and there was not a red rose in it

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