In the newspaper photo, no larger than
a postage stamp, it resembles most
our childhood idea of a ghost, with neither head
gently billowing from side to side;
or something you might come across
in a museum, a remnant of love and devotion
gone hopelessly out of fashion, pressed
and pinned behind a case of glass.
A thin, watery light, seemingly without source,
softens the edges along one side,
cuts an angle across the torso like the page
from a book suddenly stripped of words.
This is not our story to tell, though
we can't help but imagine the details --
the blistering late night arguments or withering
silence -- which lead, inevitably or not,
to this sudden change of course.
Someone else can slip into the story
now, change the names, rewrite the ending,
all while admiring the intricate stitch work
weaving in and out, the extravagant
and unnecessary ties, beads, and bows,
white cumulous clouds rising at either shoulder,
the small, angled windows of lace
we can very nearly peer through.
