Evelyn March

Evelyn March Poems

The Best Poem Of Evelyn March

As Of Yet, Untitled

When I walked down the aisle for the first time
The chapel was dimly lit and the sun
shone colored through the stained glass windows.
I can't remember if it was afternoon
or morning. My family sat in the dark wood pews
in the back, filing one by one to the front at the end
of the service. I walked ahead of them.
He waited for me quietly there.
I don't think he ever knew my name, wondered
about me, my hopes, my dreams. As for me,
I didn't know
he was alive until he died. How odd it is
don't you think,
that we may never know
the consequences
of our lives, or too of our deaths?
I have wondered since
I often wonder,
at the doll-like face,
eyes closed, cheeks a-blush,
that will never smile
at me
nor another
again.

I do believe that
in some sense
we are all dead men walking.
The life that we clasp so tightly,
that bears our bloody nailmarks,
is so quickly severed, so slender a thread.

When I die,
I wish to be
like an old bundled quilt:
Floral prints faded from sunshine and many a wash
out of the black soil of the garden,
one ripped and mended,
threadbare and patched,
purposed in life and laid to rest in death
with memories of wild and wonderful storybooks read upon it,
glorious picnics in the mystic fairy woods,
midnight giggles
and deep-night, soul-bared
confessions.

for pretty words
and all this,
I don't want to be a quilt.
I would rather be
remembered as
what I am.
Human. Loving and Beloved,
vessel of many memories,
pleasures and sorrows.
These things which endear us to each other
and to life -
this bitter painful
downward slide
which we love because
it is a gift.
There is no joy to match
the beauty of the
most fleeting moments
it has to offer.
Patchwork humanity.
Worked together from countless stories,
'This was a dress of my grandmother's
worn in the afternoon with my grandfather
on the first walk of many,
and this my childhood apron
that stayed so long a-smudged with flour
and happiness'.

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