Dear Memories, Insert a lifetime here. Sincerely Yours, The Flapper

Tradition hangs in the corner

Of the armoire near grandfather’s

Favorite tweed overcoat with

The elbows patched

Over with cobwebs that

Smell of Mahogany, Sex

And Crusted Over Cake.

Wrinkles and yellowed lace

Speak volumes of wedding

Marches and receptions,

The flappers sip gin

In the speakeasy down the

Street from the steeple.

Red hot jazz laughs alongside the

Organ the choir sings along to.

And there is Grandmother,

A youthful smile dotted with

The beautiful scent of lilac

Now crusted over like the small

crystallized flowers

On the now decayed cake.

The garment dances down, down

To the stale, decayed beat matching

That of the exquisite beading and

Tiny rip in the veil that lies

Along her cheek like the rouge

Mama brushed on her face

Moments before.

They lace up the corset and sew up the break

With a small joining (of souls or) lips, if you please.