wildscape. literary journal

While I was getting married my Grandma lay dying
by Angharad Williams

or dead, the phone rang off, the save the date lay lying, and we should have guessed 
when the hawthorn bloomed, turned up lavish and overflowing, rotting on the day 
the mother of the groom in a white dress shedding wedding night scent
and decay

Grandma said a marriage announcement is an obituary anyway, a little death ushering bees 
and flies in, and of course veil and shroud are synonyms, that cheek prettily blushed 
is guilt, confetti, posted bills, the ash of your life
I found

my tongue once and removed it something borrowed from the family pickling jar
and told you I loved you, made promises that expired like 
everyone does. 

about the author // Angharad Williams