A Monochromatic Mosaic


Opening the paper bag,
his memory and careful fingers slowly lifted, one by one,
the crumpled, folded, aging pieces of her clothing;
begrudgingly, he hoped that this surgical dissection
would not serve as catalyst,
spark a spontaneous unraveling of emotion.
Uncertain as to why this moment stalked him, yet
persuaded by an awkward sort of willingness
to analyze this evidence
he had retrieved it, silently, from its covert refuge,
a buried sanctuary in his attic orphanage.
Then he ceremoniously sat and studied on this bulky,
semi-sacred, wrinkly-paper-packaged brownness
centered on his table.
Finally, the fading light revealed his silhouette;
numbed and halting fingers shifting, rearranging,
saddened rumpled fabrics, puzzled bits,
slowly matching monochromatic rusts of blood
with their dotting, splotching, sprinkled splatter;
yet those unaged, unwelcomed, rude,
invasive, angry ammunition holes,
those red-orange-brown coffee-colored,
tattered stains of leaking evil, still remained.
If only he could put it back together;
match each bloodied signature, bind the empty holes,
with sutures of his love stitch every
bullet tattooed scar engraved into her heart and spirit,
then perhaps he might repair the pain,
reassemble stolen life,
recover long lost years of tears
and recall from some purgatory,
their youthful whispers
of hope and glory.

Copyright (c) 2007 Gary Brown