by Hayley Hudson
Last Christmas your aunt dropped
her new necklace in the hall
and it broke,
releasing dozens of pearls, each a hard hail
pellet denting our dreams of snow.
She liked tracking light bulbs -- their comings
and goings. Date screwed in; Date burnt out.
A dry wedding chased with a trip to the swamp. Must
check on a headstone's decay.
She never did have his radio
voice, but she could manage a stage.
Beautiful people standing in parks,
blocking the sidewalks,
talking to no one,
waiting for someone,
waiting for The Sartorialist.