Body Painting

Epithalamion

44 Epithalamion —for my sister Kathy,1952-1961 On the train speeding toward Madrid, you and Marilyn talked on your bunks, while I slept, a baby. She asked if you were ever going to get married. “Of course,” you said, your life at nine still perfect, and marriage another snapshot of you with your dazzling smile. Now Marilyn has children older than you were when you stepped off the train in the dark by accident—and I, an adult, find nothing in marriage uncomplicated, nothing pure. We imagine you living on, your life tracing its true course without friction or gravity, while sadness tarnishes the lives we pictured as children.All you can say is “Of course,” as if all questions were direct, all answers simple. Your face in the snapshots never changes, your smile never diluted by doubt. Fear of death will never make you turn to your lover in bed, to touch his body’s astonishing warmth. ...