Angel was Lionel\u2019s child bride.
\nHer skin was brown on brown,
\ndraped in clothes that were handmade,
\nwith brown beads and wooden cross
\naround her throat.<\/p>\n
If she had stayed on her island,
\nshe\u2019d have been carrying jugs
\nof water on her head,
\nfrom the lagoon to the house.
\nInstead, she sat at the window,
\nstared through the glass
\nat the surrounding neighborhood,
\nwith its oaks, its pines,
\nand not a palm tree in sight.<\/p>\n
I last saw her on Island Day.
\nShe had it marked on the calendar.
\nShe and Lionel would have celebrated
\nexcept Lionel was dead.
\nShe lived off his insurance
\nand blessed his name at vespers.
\nHe would have been sixty-two that year.<\/p>\n
I am John, a good Anglo-Saxon name.
\nI drank with Lionel from time to time,
\nin his house, while Angel flitted about,
\nfilling glasses, trays of peanuts,
\nshowing pictures of her beach back home
\nand the shack that she was raised in.
\nThen she\u2019d lie about how much she loved Providence
\nwhile washing dishes,
\nand singing a song in a language unknown to me.<\/p>\n
She didn\u2019t go back home after he died.
\nInstead she took up art.
\nLots of horses and vines and feet in sandals.
\nLionel figured he had rescued her from poverty.
\nShe never contradicted that.
\nBut there was so much sunshine in her canvases,
\nI had to turn from the glare at times.<\/p>\n
She didn\u2019t sell anything.
\nNor could she find work
\nwhen the money ran out.
\nAnd she was older herself,
\nmiddle-aged, and still struggling
\nwith the language.
\nShe did know the word \u201cBeautiful\u201d
\nbut no one stroked her cheek
\nand whispered it to her anymore.<\/p>\n
She was the third suicide that summer
\nof people that I knew
\nat least a little.
\nShe wrote a note on the back of a napkin.
\nIt was a plea to her friend Jo
\nto look after her pet conure,
\nthe one she had bought for company.<\/p>\n
Her last work was a brilliantly-hued bougainvillea.
\nShe would have loved to be buried
\nin their shade
\nbut was interred in the ground instead.<\/p>\n
At forty-three, she was still a child bride,
\nwith death as her much older suitor.
\n <\/p>\n
If your Uncle George calls in early January,
\nyou will not hear from him again until next late summer.
\nThat\u2019s when he\u2019ll be vociferously advertising
\nthe last cookout of the season
\nDon\u2019t be surprised if you do not attend.<\/p>\n
Count on a visit from some church missionaries in May
\nwhen it is warm enough for the little family group
\nto walk the streets in comfort.
\nBe assured that the snows of December will,
\nas always, render you totally godless.<\/p>\n
As for the joke someone tells you in February,
\nthat still gets a laugh when you repeat it to yourself,
\nyou will end up, come March, in the company
\nof someone who has not heard it before.
\nMake the most of the moment.
\nAs April showers prime the trees and grasses,
\nthe joke will be far less humorous than it\u2019s ever been.<\/p>\n
Winter dreams do not come true.
\nThe Spring versions are mostly rehashes
\nof the brumal variety.
\nIn Summer, who has time to dream anyhow?
\nFall dreams can be explained in terms
\nof the grasp that can\u2019t quite reach.
\nThere\u2019s a reason it\u2019s called Fall.<\/p>\n
If, in September, your mother
\nreminds you how tough she had it
\nwhen she was a little girl,
\ntrudging through miles of snow
\nto attend a one-room barely heated schoolhouse,
\nkeep in mind that that story is not going anywhere.
\nIt\u2019s like a giant octopus with 365 tentacles
\n(366 in a leap year) and the calendar can\u2019t escape.<\/p>\n
No season is more conducive to death than any other.
\nExcept, in Summer, folks have to cancel their vacation plans.
\nOr not as the case may be.
\nIn addition, it is wise to take into consideration
\nthat an aphorism may not be a truth
\nbut no one ever repeats one like they\u2019re lying.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
JOHN GREY<\/strong> is an Australian poet, US resident. He has recently published in Midwest Quarterly<\/em>, Poetry East<\/em>, and North Dakota Quarterly<\/em>, with work upcoming in South Florida Poetry Journal<\/em>, Hawaii Review<\/em>, and the Dunes Review<\/em>.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Angel Angel was Lionel\u2019s child bride. Her skin was brown on brown, draped in clothes that were handmade, with brown beads and wooden cross around her throat. If she had stayed on her island, she\u2019d have been carrying jugs of… Continue Reading
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