The Museum Of Sadness

and do you have a museum of sadness?

your very own? scattering the flowers before

you as you walk the trees may be while you

walk alone or on pavements of snow

hand in hand so tenderly with the Holy Ghost

the klieg lights of the moon on the lustre of the

very same marble and you know you know

the exhibits you'll want to see. the cafe across the street

as you remember the twilight's blue.
the angel guards with their grave faces.

you recognize the saturday sweaters, various letters.

the dried arrangements of who knows the best

bouquets you could have been sent at the time.

and in a frame of pearl the day you believed in

that came and went. the little stove that cooked cheap noodles.

the cinnamon shades are drawn.

and now, is it enshrined?

are the shadows mauve as if they were flowers too

in hiding from the brilliance of your sighs?

the pale green rectitudes in the scrapbooks on brown paper

where the tape is peeling the Christmas lights unwind

and in the corner, the things you wore
 amid fresh tuliped dreams:

the scarves with the glittering thread

the pale dance shoes.

the things you thought you said

inscribed in gold

and in your heart with the arrow drawn straight through:

a sob.

mary angela douglas 17 january 2015