Instructions for My Mother’s Funeral

The Flower Horses

53 The Flower Horses When I bring the drinks to the patio, I see you standing at the carousel, waiting in the dark with the white horses, their saddles packed with flowers like the ones in New Orleans where I went with the boy before you, girls dangling like beads from the latticed balconies, the moon pasted to the sky, and from the French Quarter to the Mississippi, the houses dark. When he kissed me in the corner of the last bar, he closed his eyes, pretended I was a girl in white cotton, all night waiting to lift my shirt. These breasts are heavy, Louisiana sweating down between them, and my body’s gone limp like the trees, trailing their long arms on the water. We won’t come here again. The flower horses are leaving, their heads down. Your horses are still, backs cut open for their golden poles. All night they dream of mirrors and pianos. From the patio, you look like them, the moon brushes your skin, your mouth hangs open. ...