I still have the dead bouquet
from the wedding we went to
together in November. You
were the most handsome
woman there—your pants
grabbed at the places you
sought to conceal and I wore
that slip I got in France.
All the while wondering
what it must feel like to glide
on black ice towards the alter
in the parking lot I said “absolutely”
to smoking a joint in the car, responded
quite vaguely to your concerning gestures.
The stars are relentless flecks, I thought.
We joked about stealing the flower
arrangements and toyed with the idea
of marrying in the woods. We would
have no shoes and you agreed to wear
linen and I would just wait to feel good
in something with gauze. You only
casually noticed how I left at certain songs
or how I’d tense a little when the mother
delivered her “I can’t believe how beautiful -
you are” speech. The truth is, only you
noticed. Now the hydrangeas guard the
window in our apartment, reflecting stain –
colored sun. Mimicking silk,
they used to live once.