Plans

Their poor mothers’ white gloves on the waters.  Their desperate fathers, too.



Their unborn children dressed



in little unlaced shoes



being read to from unwritten books in undecorated rooms.



 



Shovelful of unfathomable. Crumbling castle of could have been.  So many prayers hanging from so many hooks.  So many unconscious flowers engulfed in hours



 



swaying, saying pardon-moi, wearing



fleshy halos, breathy crowns.



 



And the butcher’s bloody little heaven



in a hole.  The nurse unwinding and unwinding bandages upon bandages until



 



nothing but bandages are left.



 



A little gasp of laughter after that.



 



An hourglass washed up by the sea.



The soapy light of a late June afternoon. And the doves in the hedges



like plans for the future.



 



Those doves, such



gentle, nervous guests, and—so polite.



 



So let me ask you.  Now



that we know what happened



next:



 



What did they have to hide



and where did they hide it?