Kay Meier

Rehearsal

The winter she was twelve

she became an old hand at losing.

First her mother died,  then her father,

her grandmother in March.  

She got used to black silk,                

sermons, the reading of the will.

Neighbors would touch her arm,

invite her to dinner.

She was a carrier, spreading death,

prepared for two-faced girlfriends,

boys who didn't call back.

She could handle anything

but a promise.