Amy D. Hayes

Moonlight Sonata for Trish Meddaugh Arpeggio: Slush.  A tattered fender, screeched-out whipping lights. A mobile of casual autos rotates about you, burst upon an endless icy field due for suburban construction. Resplendent and grim, you petal snow with your life.  News Six will gloss you tonight, an Andy Warhol butterfly. Melodic Line: Denny's.  Snow-dusted, green vinyl crushes us against grainy coffee spills.  Karla's paramedic-brother breathed breathed... breathed into your throat, she says.  I see slices of air whippling your shred skin in a mortal lung-tease. I vomit in the bathroom, so sorry. Finale: You.  Catholic only in death. Everyone comes.  Not one sobs. A well-throated eulogy, 200 tongues finger 200 wafers. We bow to make you holy (in a different way.) The pianist mimics your leave, a few tender-clothed notes flattened against the church walls. This does sound like moonlight. I open to catch the last beam in my mouth, but lose it to the sun- rise of the coffin lid.

Copyright © 2000 Amy D. Hayes All Rights Reserved