This red veil snags
like a body bag zipped
to the last breath.
A bride caught asleep,
I’m free as a kick,
a stockinged leg.
Spit beads
on the sacrament’s
burned tongue, ready
to dissolve me.
There are two lives
and between them—
an aisle, a morgue.
I’ve worn this
claustrophillic gown
for days.
It unravels
my making.