final details | june 25, 1973

My latest poem.

Final Details
June 25, 1973
You’re getting married tomorrow morning
in the old green church right across the street. 
Tonight’s the last night we’ll share our floral-papered bedroom. 
Your dress is hanging, in a clear zipped-up bag,
on the back of our door, covering my Carole King poster. 

Twenty minutes ago, mom came by to say hush. 
She was in her floor-length chenille robe
and had big foam rollers in her hair. 
She could hear us giggling from down the hall
as we made confetti out of your old photographs and letters. 

Stored in a hidden box under your bed,
that you didn’t think I knew about,
was a piece of every boy who’d ever broken your heart or stolen a kiss. 
Every picture had a story that you’d told me,
half asleep in the dark, at least once before.
Every love note echoed the high school’s gymnasium
dressed up for Homecoming.

In minutes, every photo became two, then four,
then sixteen, then thousands of jagged-edged memories.
We littered our orange shag with one-sided snow
until the only pictures left in the box were  Polaroids
of cheer squad and graduation.

Sitting in the middle of the mess, I picked up a handful of our shreds
to make them rain all over you. 
Practice for tomorrow, I said, and we both laughed. 
Opening my new pack of film, we posed in the shreds of an old life
and captured an instant memory.  A first and a last.