Somewhere in Sometown, USA, there lies
a bride, in a trunk—in an attic—in a house—
in a tangled mess of lace and limbs, a douse
of clouds floating across the landscape of her eyes.
Even now, her lace has begun to curl like eye-
lashes on a night ready for batting, her blouse
see-through as a ghost. But it wasn’t that blouse
she now rests in. It’s a gown her mother dyed
with small snakeweed in warm waters weeks
before her wedding day. The bride wasn’t found
until years later, when a child in a veil crowned
with dandelions & mums playing hide-and-seek
broke the latch and lifted the wooden lid—
unearthing a beautiful head of hair, still done up.