MEMORIES OF AN EVENING
At the dinner table, while they nibbled salad,
before her mother served the pot roast,
she told the old story of her brother's friend,
how he smeared baby oil on the upstairs door knobs,
an April Fool's prank. Hanging behind one door,
her graduation dress, sweet dream of a dress,
disgraced with unctuous greasy splotches.
It was a long, rambling story. Slightly tipsy,
she began to cry before she finished the telling.
Loud piano music spilled from a window
in the house next door. The rain stopped
and the moon came out.
Her mother had strawberries
for dessert, over-ripe and mushy.
She remembered the oily feel of the knobs,
the rotting berries, the ruined dress;
before her mother served the pot roast,
she told the old story of her brother's friend,
how he smeared baby oil on the upstairs door knobs,
an April Fool's prank. Hanging behind one door,
her graduation dress, sweet dream of a dress,
disgraced with unctuous greasy splotches.
It was a long, rambling story. Slightly tipsy,
she began to cry before she finished the telling.
Loud piano music spilled from a window
in the house next door. The rain stopped
and the moon came out.
Her mother had strawberries
for dessert, over-ripe and mushy.
She remembered the oily feel of the knobs,
the rotting berries, the ruined dress;
there was a corruption about it all.
- Marianne McNamara -
*comments welcome
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