By Aimee Mackovic
Joe DiMaggio placed a 20 year order of roses to be placed at Marilyn Monroe’s grave three time a week. Wikipedia
“I’ll finally get to see Marilyn” were your final
perfect words. The last of the rose petals
faded decades ago, but your torch was so primal,
never flickered. What’s it take, then? What kind of metal
turns the dregs of life into a love like that?
To endure all those moons and stars but not look
upon her face is, I think, a kind of fate that
kills, does it not? Entangled, others’ hearts long forsook,
you always knew she was your ending, your magnet
inescapable made flesh. Is it better to live in ruin
or the all-consuming fire? So easy it is to forget
the beauty of both. I wonder, when you saw her again,
what were your first words? How does the naked soul
possibly have such a language to extol?
Copyright Mackovic 2017