You entered, holding deep
red roses, velvet mysteries presented
with finesse: “Notice the language
of flowers. They’re not white.”
Not funeral, not wedding, not virgin.
An easy guest, an easy
way about the walk, the ready
smile. The laugh
infrequent, bright and deep, the eyes that missed
nothing. The withheld words.
An easy brush of hands, a deepening eye, and
nothing missed, but all held close and closed.
A shared taste for Laphroaig, smoky mystery
dispersed by water droplets, held in mystery.
A way to do, and a way not to do.
A corner chanced away from other guests, soft press
of lips, and soft again, and “Hold that thought.”
Agreed. And then the leaving.
Inherent in the leaving was the hold.
Hold awhile. Hold, consider. Hold that thought,
that mystery, abrupt, close-held, of hold.
— Frances Huggard Migliaccio