For some reason, nobody ever mentions Rudy Weidoeft
when they talk about music, or the 1930s, or dry ale. Not even liver disease
is real these days. My uncle died seven months ago
from Pepsi, but not really. They just told that story
to his long-divorced wife so that she
could order
an epitaph. The man at the department store
told her that beige accentuated her cirrus-cloud hair
and she bought the dress. For closure, for forgiveness, to look
lovely when she stood in the moon. “Listen to the song again,” I say to her
and remove wax wrap packaging
from the record player. Turning over an opaque disc,
I can almost fathom people still listen to jazz. She is
pretending I am still a senseless child while she sits
as a fragile paper doll in the recliner she never bought.
But the music isn't clear anymore, and I wonder
if Rudy Weidoeft ever married. Maybe he did; maybe
she left him before the alcohol even started.
My uncle's bouquet is cherry red and blue, like if I placed it to my lips
some tie-dye mark would stain my tongue for good. The woman
that is not quite his wife is smiling for the longest time before
the morgue insists she carry his purple neck-tie. We sing “Amazing Grace,” and
bless the stars that never looked over him