# Ghost marriage

Дарина Юрьевна Татаринова

A bride of crimson, silent, paper thin,

A painted doll where longing used to bloom.

Ghost marriage binds us, though I cannot win

Her living touch, entombed within this room.

She needs my hand to guide her reverent bow,

The wine she sips runs rivers down her dress,

And food escapes the lips I can't allow

To smudge or she'll look lifelike less

Where is she truly? By the Yellow Springs,

Her soul adrift? Or bones beneath the ground?

Is she the name whose sound still to the tablet clings,

Or just this doll where silence can be found?

It matters not. Let spirits come and go.

She's mine, all mine, that's all I need to know