“Let him speak now . . .” Any impediments? See those rings that sink into the cutwork lace pillow the best man brings, nursing them down the aisle, premature twins whose suck we count by teaspoons? They will hug one finger each. She is already wed to the white ring of her own horizon, he to his, though now he parts the gauze, leans forward, and his image leaps in her eyes’ circle, flame struck tall by gust; even I, chilled taper, feel the stiff wax swim clear. Before them the steep altar steps; behind, a palisade of bodies pressing them, lilies and roses mashed in one bouquet. But there’s a lonely threshold, over which he cannot carry her; nor will flesh join, although his body reaches a little way into her darkness, though she draws him in far as she can. Look at him, belly squeezed in rented cummerbund: shadows creep and prickle on his lately shaven cheek. Look at her, corseted and sheathed: nagging and moodiness begin to crimp her powdered brow. In both, the mystery that transubstantiates hot flesh to dust sounds the recessional. So soon. I rise, saluting, and my eyes run wet as anyone’s. But no one wants to hear the only promise is impermanence. I will forever hold it, my unpeace, while the attendants lunge for the bouquet.
Kristin Camitta Zimet
20
