memory in his handkerchief
tucked in his left breast pocket. In childbirth,
wiping sweat from her brow. Yellowed by her
cigarette. It's balled in wrinkles now. Dabbing

her tears with paisley cotton.  Once white
as the roses she carried the day
they married. She'd blot her crimson
lipstick lips before she planted

him a kiss. Her spilled perfume on
the dresser. The years had not made
his pain lesser. He'd waved the handkerchief
like a kite in the air, as she waltzed

down the stair. Now the square piece of
cloth has holes from the moths. But he
cannot wash it. He wore it along side
his lapel as they rang the wedding bells.