red shoe morning

My weddings are all rainy, you told me once,

then told me again, as we drove that highway west,

through dense sheets of tarmac deluge,

sluiced like gutter leaf and cockleshell,

in coupled grace up Noah’s plank,

we rivered towards your sister’s house,

to slither beneath borrowed sheets,

to consummate our morning’s vows.

I took pictures all that weekend,

although those digital forget-me-nots

only tell the story by half.

Do you, (say your name)… take her…?,

In that granite and florescent courthouse,

O sad-worn place of indictment and fishing license,

as you held a nosegay of store-bought meadow flowers

like petaled bunting, in your arms,

I caught your face, pale and pensive, looking down,

an ancient ritual remnant,

freed as if from a wicked witchy spell,

And then the laughing tumble to the library across the street,

because the moment’s momentous majesty,ike a dog made apoplectic,

from the brass band satori of reunion,

made us both want to pee.

That night, the house was cold;

the pipes below our feet,

like the bloodless arteries of some sleeping beast,

refused to warm the corridors above.

But here is where our coupling is magnificent:

Your first great feat of wifely multi-task.

While washing rescued hand-me-downs,

behind the symphony of drier thump,

you made a meal from night star and moon beam,

a feast of sweet sauce and leaf green,

our wedding night ambrosia,

poured from love’s Cuisinart,

while below I prowled the dusty cavern,

errant knight’s nightly errand

probing, tapping, pipe and valve,

your impatient bridegroom,

seeking fire to heat our sacred tryst.

And here is my favorite one: a snap of you,

just before we fell,

between the fury and the sheets;

a golden girl in candlelight,

your spine an arching arabesque,

your pubis shock of tawny bush,

an erogenous explanation point,

between your sturdy dancer’s legs.

And afterwards,

while that chilly, borrowed house

loyal to your distant kin,

kept it’s thermostatic secrets below,

we twined like silver soup tureens,

spent sex like steamer coals,

the melting wax in rainbow eddies caught in crystal saucer

by the bed,

we twined and dreamed and whispered:

all that comes will come,

as long as this night will last,

and the next and the next,

adding all those days,

in cryptic, longing ciphers,

fused by lifelong contrariety,

we fight this holy Jihad against

numbers, boxes, rules and knots.

And there, on that First Night of Us,

by calender and clerical blessing,

the steady weight of newborn sleep,

to greet our first dawn as one,

dream, like fallen coins,

coiling and uncoiling,

hand’s tucked, silver bands,

belly fed, Eros sated,

we thanked the gods, once more, a thousand times,

for finally getting it right.

Rainy Night House (wedding photographs)

My weddings are all rainy, you told me once,

then told me again, as we drove that highway west,

through dense sheets of tarmac deluge,

sluiced like gutter leaf and cockleshell,

in coupled grace up Noah’s plank,

we rivered towards your sister’s house,

to slither beneath borrowed sheets,

to consummate our morning’s vows.

I took pictures all that weekend,

although those digital forget-me-nots

only tell the story by half.

Do you, (say your name)… take her…,

In that granite and florescent courthouse,

O sad-worn place of indictment and fishing license,

as you held a nosegay of store-bought meadow flowers

like petaled bunting, in your arms,

I caught your face, pale and pensive, looking down,

an ancient ritual remnant,

freed as if from a wicked witchy spell,

And then the laughing tumble to the library across the street,

because the moment’s momentous majesty,ike a dog made apoplectic,

from the brass band satori of reunion,

made us both want to pee.

That night, the house was cold;

the pipes below our feet,

like the bloodless arteries of some sleeping beast,

refused to warm the corridors above.

But here is where our coupling is magnificent:

Your first great feat of wifely multi-task.

While washing rescued hand-me-downs,

behind the symphony of drier thump,

you made a meal from night star and moon beam,

a feast of sweet sauce and leaf green,

our wedding night ambrosia,

poured from love’s Cuisinart,

while below I prowled the dusty cavern,

errant knight’s nightly errand

probing, tapping, pipe and valve,

your impatient bridegroom,

seeking fire to heat our sacred tryst.

And here is my favorite one: a snap of you,

just before we fell,

between the fury and the sheets;

a golden girl in candlelight,

your spine an arching arabesque,

your pubis shock of tawny bush,

an erogenous explanation point,

between your sturdy dancer’s legs.

And afterwards,

while that chilly, borrowed house

loyal to your distant kin,

kept it’s thermostatic secrets below,

we twined like silver soup tureens,

spent sex like steamer coals,

the melting wax in rainbow eddies caught in crystal saucer

by the bed,

we twined and dreamed and whispered:

all that comes will come,

as long as this night will last,

and the next and the next,

adding all those days,

in cryptic, longing ciphers,

fused by lifelong contrariety,

we fight this holy Jihad against

numbers, boxes, rules and knots.

And there, on that First Night of Us,

by calender and clerical blessing,

the steady weight of newborn sleep,

to greet our first dawn as one,

dream, like fallen coins,

coiling and uncoiling,

hand’s tucked, silver bands,

belly fed, Eros sated,

we thanked the gods, once more, a thousand times,

for finally getting it right.

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