Jim McCrary in Black Spring


from Holbox

it is: her wedding
gown, the tulle tiara
beaded but falling
apart like what
it celebrated did.
Ghosts in the hair
brushes, in the
white sink, boxes
of clay, hover,
still howl. The
tapes of calls,
relics she can't
get away from,
can't get away
from even her best
subject lyn lifshin
pampered you
babied, gone
slow. You're
not going to go
along with my
fantasy, are
shaky, flawed
and may never
be reliable
or strong

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