Hollis Kurman
A Perfect Procession
It wasn’t until she died that she got to ride in the white
carriage of her dreams, drawn by four fine, pale mares,
cobblestone clopping in sombre sorority,
festive mourners snaking behind, holding single blooms
or balloons aloft in a trickle of still, bouncing palette pink
and white, air thickening as steps went slack.
A boatman piped sacred songs from the water, an undertow if
canals have one, sticking to the little city bridges, teasing visitors
from the farmers’ market as they slipped
fragrant cheeses into their totes and turned. What a perfect
procession, and what might they be celebrating on this clear,
hot morning, as no one speaks or sings?
It wasn’t her first time singing in a church, her voice bell
lifting to the Westertoren and daring throats to catch,
eyes to avert, her soundtrack of sweet
animation, oversized princess eyes scanning the pews
from their screen; the notes kept coming, lifting, lancing,
the news in quarter notes, a quartered
life, and she sang her heart out from her place not there.
Remember, the crotchet is a fleeting fourth of semibreve,
and rarely has brevity sliced so slowly.
Would she have wept along, unwrinkled hand to dimpled
cheek, knowing of the horse-drawn mourning, petal scent
pulling away, balloons squirming loose?
BIS! She would grant us one more melody. Finger pads
grazing her collar bone, she opened her mouth wide and
gave the performance of her life.