"The Wedding at St. Albans"
I didn’t say what frightens you about marriage?
when you sat, quiet as a keystone in the nave
making eye contact with the floor.
I didn’t see your hands tremble against
your will as you tucked them neatly
beneath your legs, or hear your heart
clamor in its walls. There was too much
distraction--failure rustling in your crypts
like punctured sacks of grain. I didn’t remember
the walk back to Aster House, what time
I finally fell asleep.
I said the inn left me ravenous. I saw cold
toast and watery eggs, coffee as predictably
bland as the end of a Harlequin novel.
I listened to the wallpaper peeling
in our room, picked up yesterday’s teacups
from the dresser. I opened windows
to the green, took the last few shots
in my camera, asked if you were ready to leave.
© 2007 Emusing (Lois P. Jones)
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