We are gathered here
today to celebrate a woman who lived and died over a hundred years
ago. A first and only woman. A woman who wore white thrice. A wedding
veil, a veil of hair, and a veil of mold. The third seen by only
by what eats her, like applause and the rain that swells and slips
into every coffin, no matter what the salesman whispers in the
parlor’s showroom.
According to the town and aqueous-coated
brochures, she rode her casket to her execution between crowds
of tourists who came especially not for her but to watch, to cheer
and be cheered by the one who cheers to the left and the right.
So many expected fans, the town’s four blind horses raced her to
the next town over.
(continue)
