We married for acceptance: to stall the nagging
married friends who wanted us
to do it there and then—
with them. In the downy wedlocked bed
we ask “Is there life after
one-day honeymoons to Kissamee Springs?
Was I all right?” The answers, woefully,
are no and no. And yes,
we lollygagged down the aisle, vowed
to forsake dallying, shilly-shallying and cleave
only onto one another, to forever romp
in the swampy rumpus
room of our eccentricities: that sanctum
sanctorum where I sport
bedsocks and never rise
till noon. What did we know?
Did you know my love for animals
has always been acute? Perhaps in time
I will become a shepherdess, a jockey.
At the reception every table was adorned
with toilet tissue twisted
into swans. When I unraveled one
to find the charm, the management
was shocked. Dismembering swans!
No bride had ever . . . And the prize, a little gizzard
of a ring, was disappointing. Oh Person,
was it worth it? Of course,
we fit at dinner parties. But as one part warbles
to be normal, another puts a spin on things.
I see you striving to frolic
in your steel-mesh tweeds as I model
chiffon voluptuaries the color of exhaust.
In the wedding album we end or commence
our revels. There we are! doing the cha-cha-cha
to the boom-chick-chick band
in our dyed-to-match togs.
We’re getting fat
on the eats, foaming
white crumbs, “Honey” and ‘“‘Dear”’
cumbersome as live doves
on our tongues.
Bring squeezeboxes, gardenias,
a hybrid of the two. Congratulate us,
chums. Smile and freeze: our dimples stiffen
to resolute framed stares. How adult
we look! Our eyes burn
stoplights in the Instamatic squares.