(based on suggestions from @GretasTARDIS, @ernmalleyscat, @robcorr, @pinknantucket)
They’ve been on the windowsill since the wedding.
She kept them as a talisman to ward off satin dresses
and ill-advised gin and tonics with cucumber and then
without cucumber. Once the garnish is dispensed with
it’s all over. The wind blew her up the hill and
the evening’s conversations drifted as zephyrs
through the branches in her head. The yeah/no,
the you knows, the yeah I knows, the years of knowing
that these are the same exchanges as last time.
Always the bridesmaid; never the nice dress.
The point of getting married is you choose your outfit.
Her sister had smiled “You can’t have a bridesmaid
who outshines the bride!” Yeah no. Yeah I know.
Once upon a time those flowers would have wilted.
But each stem is rough-ended into a water tube
a bouquet of condoms shoved into her hands.
“That way it’ll last like forever!” chirped the bride.
She eyes the blooms for a week. Gets up.
Grabs those life-preservers in a handful.
Rips them off. No more safe sex for roses.
Let marriage at least outlive their bruised petals.
Today’s poem is based on suggestions from four peeps:
- @GretasTARDIS: “wilted flowers”
- @ernmalleyscat: “yeah no, you know, yeah I know”
- @robcorr: “wind”
- @pinknantucket: “Gin & tonic, preferably Hendricks with a slice of cucumber but this Bombay Sapphire with cumquat is ok too.”
I write a lot of poems about myself and people I know. Today’s is an attempt at fiction, at someone I don’t know and a story that hasn’t been part of my life. Though I do hate those little water-tubes they stick on the ends of flowers.