The Elegy: Cherry Blossom

Beth Townsend

Cloaked in palindromic ecstasy,
As he writes his first elegy,
For Martha with the cherry blossom hair
but death has frozen her
as a pink and white mirage
Wash in?
Wash out?
Too late.
She wore a faux-chain metal dress,
Once had matching metal chain dreads.
They chafed his cravat.

The coffin didn't suit her style,
Plain, placid, pinewood.
Lack of funds or lack of hearts
Left Martha flung open, lying there,
A greyer shade of pink and white,
Cherry blossom hair.

He kneeled at her open coffin,
Scribbled elegy in hand.
Touched all the places she said
Revealed his final plan.

Bit her cheek, didn't draw blood,
Stroked her scars, didn't stir.
Placed the elegy on her tongue,
Backed away from her.

My Martha, still a picture,
of cherry blossom dreams.
She giggled,
spat out his screwed up words.
And he,
cried, crimson.