February 2006
Rebecca Wittman

Winter 2021
I got married at eight in the morning.
It was winter: the trees encased in ice,
    the telephone wires          in blackbirds.

Then it’s just us. Mouthy red rose. Weak-kneed fern.

We are no longer beginning. This does not surprise me.

I have dreams of my wedding dress, stark white and satin; I have dreams of
the altar where we stepped on bones.
Even back then, wearing desire, I knew ten years,
five, even two
might bleach us out.

We are no longer beginning, but this is unimportant.

For other people it might have been proactive. Other newlyweds might have said
next year, anniversary, property: giddy,
thinking only of the future.
Other newlyweds might have gotten drunk at the reception and talked
hexagonally tiled pools.

For us it was reactive. Arched us backward. Felt familiar. I could’ve beaten a drug dog in a sniff
test: I knew that I had loved you past. I knew that I could do it again

It’s nice that you wrote your own wedding vows.

I want you
like death wants forever, you said.
There’s no other way to do it.

Monday Nov 5 2018