Friday, October 3, 2014

Virginia Woolf: Bride

The tenth of August, 1912.

Earlier that year the Titanic met her demise, 
becoming the only thing its maker promised she would not.

Did you read about it in the paper, hear it from a friend? 
Did you see the obituaries and look into the eyes of a woman named Edna 
or Joyce and did the pull of her soul tug you down down down?

Did you wear something traditional? Something white? I can’t imagine 
you like this; I will assume you wore wool trousers 
and a collared shirt. Your lips you deigned to paint a rose pink 
so close to your natural color he didn’t even notice it on you.

Did you think of them as you said Yes, Yes, Yes—their bodies 
went into the ocean and the ocean stole the lights from their eyes.

The officiate watches your lips say Yes, but 
could he see the lipstick? 
Could all those souls, frozen, bobbing, slick, dark, fit so neatly into your chest?

Did you know then you wouldn’t be able to carry them all?