Three April Brides In Central Park
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Three April Brides In Central Park

 Kerry Trautman
 Kerry Trautman
Three April Brides In Central Park
by Kerry Trautman  FollowFollow
Kerry Trautman has moved from smalltown Ohio, to not-so-small-town Ohio, and back to another smalltown, Ohio, always carefully maintaining more weirdo nature, if not her yard. It’s what keeps her interested, if not interesting. Kerry participates in local poetry readings & events such as Artomatic 419, 100-Thousand Poets for Change, Back to Jack, & the Columbus Arts Festival. Her poetry & short fiction have appeared in various journals, including "Midwestern Gothic," "The Cumberland River Review," "Think Journal," "The Coe Review," "Mock Turtle Zine," "Alimentum," "The Redwood Coast Review," "Mixolydian Blues," "The Fourth River," & "Third Wednesday;" as well as in anthologies such as, "Mourning Sickness" (Omniarts, 2008), & "Journey to Crone" (Chuffed Buff Books, 2013). Her first poetry chapbook, "Things That Come in Boxes" was published by King Craft Press in 2012. Her second poetry chapbook is "To Have Hoped" (Finishing Line Press, 2015.)
More work by Kerry Trautman:
Three April Brides In Central Park
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Ten feet out into the pond,
teetering on a boulder.
We wonder
if her groom stripped to shorts
to wade her out
or if the photographer
rented a rowboat to ferry her.
Wisteria hasn’t rebirthed yet.
No one carried her satin train—
dragging on cobblestones,
front skirts bustled
in her arms like a newborn.
A white whipped blip
on greening horizon,
her veil disappearing behind
upthrust schist.
If someone shoved her,
doused ivory beading in
a muffled splash, her squeal
would peal toward cherry blossoms.
She drops her skirts, smothering
a bed of daffodils—the bulbs of which
gifted from Belgium
in tens of thousands after 9/11.
Her twin shins smooth amidst
crinoline and yellow trumpets.
Breeze sails her slim veil
skyward like a dragon kite
a child tried all morning to launch.
She wills this bit of her to dissipate.
It will return.
That’s how it is for her.
The high-school tour-group girls gawk,
croon “aaaawwwwwww”
at mermaid maiden
splashed only with flashbulbs.
They will themselves into her
sparkling corset, and flat on
their backs on her hotel bedsheets.
Posed now on Gapstow Bridge,
her head high as
the San Remo building behind,
where Sondheim used to plink and
Bono took tea with honey.
She tucks a curl behind an ear,
hopes for longer than
Bruce and Demi.
“Find your light”
the photographer says,
and she raises her chin
toward sunbeam through
crabapple branches,
eyes tearing,
trying not to squint.
She practices trying not to fall.
If she fell
it would likely be
only shin-deep.
For today’s hourly rate
she smiles
and tomorrow in the chapel.
The weight of her is rigid and
her skull fits into the green of here.


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