Virgin brides and tennis players
Corpses always dress in white
like virgin brides and tennis players
Oblivious to cheers and lamentation
at the celebration of their sacrifice
uniforms to attract marauding stares
centers of attention but there’s a catch.
After the party after the wake
sudden isolation falls like a beaded curtain
like pebbles on polished hollow oak
applause in the democratic bleachers.
Unseen and unmolested they tear up towels
into squares of lacy gauze to mop up
Pools of hymen blood so thin and bright
so salinated with sweat and tears and loss
That an ad hoc loneliness ensues
courting the disaster of divorce
Sportive stories of the future dead:
love, deuce, advantage, set, match.
poem by Richard Collins