How It Happens
That’s how it happens, I suppose—
like the storybooks say,
Whether I want it to or not—
You, visiting a Synagogue in
summer vacation, write me
a lengthy postcard description
of that
overly-spiritual open-minded child-oriented
dark curly-haired single business woman with a
sitting in the back row thinking, “My God, he’s it!”
and how you looked up and stopped praying
for your dream because it arrived one
blue Friday like a Tiffany’s box, delivered
in white ribbon laced around her waist,
trimmed just for your hands to come undone
While I’ll get the stamped, official part of you,
tattered sentimental,
Engraved
“
shriveling in my hands because
we’ll both know you really meant to say
“
--Heather Oldham