Dorian Vallejo, Bubble (oil on panel)
Back into the bottle,
the fight can’t remember what it was about anymore.
Car tires screech backwards into the garage. The T-shirts on the front lawn fly back
into the closet. The suitcase falls backward onto the bottom shelf.
Windows reassemble, unbroken in the garage.
The husband’s old chest recedes into a new shirt.
Men become so young you can see the funerals in their eyes
go back to friendships. The failures pour out of their shoes like sand.
The wives fit into wedding dresses. Flowers remember their old bouquets.
The church bells ricochet so loud they drown
out sound of creaking chairs.
And you can taste the lost wedding cake, made of rose petals and lemon,
melting, like a forgotten light, on the tongue.