by Sara Callor
What
is love but that irksome envelope,
enclosing
hormones in clandestine ink,
a
threnody of lamentation, hope
a
hostage to the hoopla and the stink
of
pink and purple histrionic act.
Begin
with chardonnay and glittered jewels,
end
up with writhing white wedding dress pact.
‘Cause
even vows become temporal rules
and
love becomes a taxidermy pale.
Like
Sisyphus, the stone still rolls them back—
tomorrow’s
only sweet in fairy tale—
but
lachrymose a more likely track.
If
love is really what you’re after, then
reality
has one less denizen.
Biography:
Sara
Callor is a graduate of the MFA program at Northwest Institute of
Literary Arts and is a fiction editor for Soundings Review Literary
Magazine. She is an avid runner and lives in Colorado.
Wow, really like this one!
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