He showed up for his wedding with a moustache hanging below his nose,
and down the isle he dragged behind him a fridge
which contained the finest cuts of meat, salami, prosciutto, bresaola

all imported from a Milanese butcher
he once wrestled during the war.

His bride was late,
a punctured tire?
traffic lights?
the sound of bells
or cannon fire?

The church was not the oldest thing in the village, “Old man” Mendelssohn owned that title,
and he sat in a chair sucking down air
dispensed from a metal

He stood at the front of the church,
chewing on a slice of meat and his memory strayed
to childhood days
of swinging from trees with Lucien.

His bride arrived late and the
twins arrived 9 months later,
on time and looking nothing like
their “father”, cept for the


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