EPITHALAMION

Your voice pooled around my commonsense.

I pulled white silk through my brass ring,

dropping hints at your pigeon-toed feet.

A pulse jumped under my blue-veined skin.

A mosaic of pain broke out like war.

At the rehearsal, Mother in her flatline calm

bombed our drinks with cherries

and posted a curse above the published banns.

We sat there glumly, holding back her hands.

Before this devolves into a narrative of hindsight-

your heart grows numb, the kids burn down the halfway house - 

you should know I've come prepared: keys jammed

between my knuckles, a map of alternatives on the dash.

Right beside the rigid Mary. Right under your lucky dice.