Pink Flesh
Scrubbed, clean, just out of the bath:
like she’s sleeping on a bed of silk.
Two years on, almost to the week,
his hands crossed in front like your father
giving his daughter away:
trying to remember the lines;
pair of them dressed to the nines
like in life they never were.
Him in shirtsleeves watching the wrestling,
her baking rockcakes in the back
is how I’d choose to recall
if it weren’t for the sight of pink flesh
in uncomfortable cloth, both of them together
absconded from their own funerals.
Page(s) 30-31
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