Music: Music Box
By Mark Owen Martin
Inspiration piece
Rose Heart
By Lauren B. Flax
Response
I watched you unfold from your little car
As I stood on the steps of St. Theresa
Your shoulders scarcely cleared the door
Less a vehicle and more a suit of armor
You smiled, shaking the groom’s hand
Looking so much taller than I remember
I wonder sometimes if you remember
That icy night, talking in your car
You breathed warmth into my shaking hand
In the parking lot of St. Theresa
I wore my intellect as bright as armor
Refusing you when you held the door
When last I stood here, by this heavy door
Another wedding long ago, I remember
A limp rose pinned at your chest, your only armor
We shared a flask of whiskey in your car
Bellies burning as we walked into St. Theresa
Each the fire in the other’s hand
Fire swirling between your hand and my hand
The groaning of the arched wood and iron door
That closed us up inside St. Theresa
All tangle in my breath as I remember
That night with you in your little car
Your limp rose heart pressed to my tarnished armor
Fire cleaved to fire, left molten armor
Above me, you held a flaming spear in your hand
A plunge to the heart left me brittle as a burned out car
All glass melted, seared-shut door
Diabolical or divine, I cannot remember
Surrendered in ecstasy like St. Theresa
Standing on the steps of St. Theresa
Time does not heal, it only forges armor
Soldered plates of what we choose to remember
The fire swirling between your hand and my hand
The groaning of the heavy wood and iron door
That frigid night inside your car
Let me suffer, like St. Theresa, or let me die at love’s hand
Memory’s spear pierces armor, melts the hinges off the door
This is the fire I remember, as you unfold from your little car.
.
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