Margaret

It is New Year’s Day,
1852, the same year
I am going to die.
I don’t know that yet.
My future husband fidgets
under his freshly starched
collar. He will leave me here
in the ground come September,
head out west to California
with his two brothers
chasing the gold
of sunsets. Who knows,
maybe he finds some.
The brothers will die
en route, one of Typhus,
the other robbed, beaten,
and stabbed. I won’t know
any of this. I’ll only know
how lovely I look in mother’s
chiffon and lace, my barely
more than a girl blue
saucer eyes veiled
to what awaits
on my wedding night
and further on. I am light
as the sifting snow swirls
through the churchyard
graveyard. The same
I will lie in later
this autumn,
in this same snow
white gown, dreaming
my perfect children softly
playing in the late afternoon
half-light before my dream
house, Nathaniel slanting
slowly across the sun
burnt field, his golden
arms laden
with plenty.