Chris Rice Cooper

Chris Rice Cooper

Wednesday, November 23, 2016

"Pink Blossoms" from the Jacqueline Lee Bouvier Kennedy Onassis Poetry Series by Chris Rice Cooper

Christal Cooper – Poem 351 Words
Facebook @ Christal Ann Rice Cooper



Pink Blossoms
Jacqueline Lee Bouvier Kennedy

She didn’t want to go to Texas.
Those cowboys act as if they can ride.
Instead,

she flipped open
her red leather appointment book
and wrote T-E-X-A-S across
November 21, 22, and 23.

On Air Force One
he made Bloody Marys,
and they touched their glasses,
just like the first time.

And, for the first time in ten years
she was happy
in a pink Chanel Suit
with the pink pillbox hat
Jack loved.
You’re going to show these Texans
what good taste really is.

Lincoln SS 100 X
side-by-side in the rear seats,
red roses between them,
in dark sunglasses
her white-kid-gloved hands
waving, like baby doves fluttering.

Take off the glasses, Jackie.
His last words to her.
Soaked by his brains, blood,
pieces of his flesh-colored skull,

the long stemmed roses
between them.

She tried to piece his head back
together
like a jig
saw
puzzle
and
held it together.
But his blood and brains
were cake batter
baking in her white-glove hands.

Lady Bird said the car
was a bundle of pink blooming drifts
of blossoms.

At Parkland Hospital
she saw his body
in undershorts,
white from the loss of blood.
She kissed his feet,
his lips, his cheeks.
Father Hofer gave the last rights,
and she knelt in the corner,
said prayers for the dead.

Everyone insisted she change.
No.  Let them see what they’ve done.
She work pink and blood for hours.

On the way to the White House
Admiral Buckley handed her two dying roses,
retrieved from a trash can-
all that was left of her welcome
bouquet.  She laid them to rest
in her pocket.

She wanted to tell the children
but Nanny Maud did
instead.

She went to the nursery,
her girl, boy standing tall.
Dressed in pajamas.
The thing to remember most of all, your father
was President of the United States.

Caroline wrote a letter to Daddy,
then placed her hand on John’s
and wrote another –

to place in the 500-year-old
African mahogany coffin
where his face waited like a wax mask

from Madame Tussaud’s.


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