You got married

It seemed obvious once I said it,

yet, I couldn’t picture it clearly at all,

the wedding, your bride . . . 

Waiting at the checkout,

those in front of me all seemed to have

complicated transactions—

vouchers, exemptions.

They looked rather well-fed and well-to-do.

Then all the cashiers walked out.

I was irate.

What was this country coming to?

What happened to good service?

Or any service at all?

I wanted to yell at somebody.

No one was listening. 

The President had resigned.

Didn’t I know?

Was the First Lady a lesbian?

Someone asked.

And so, some sort of coup

happened while I was getting groceries.

The spring sun was warm 

and everyone poured into the streets.

Water slowly trickled, melting off.

I felt it,

Cool on the yellow walls

Vibrant on the pavement.

I brushed my hand against the stucco

and tried to make sense of it,

to feel what was real,

if anything,

but it was all so distant,

any danger/chaos/bloodshed,

a fog above a thawing pond.

I could see two or three dogs

rambling down the street,

fighting amiably.

I sat on the curb

and you settled next to me

as I slowly caressed the rue

that was growing up,

pale and new,

through the cracks,

and the detritus—

Yellow bits

of discarded sponges.

and crumpled plastic cups.

You started to speak

And I pretended to understand:

Destiny, dynasty,

It all meant nothing to me.

You choked on “rococo”

And your voice went up

Like a bird

To a high branch,

And I saw

The whitened bones of a steer

Resting there,

Gently draped

As if asleep.

And you, too,

Incongruent,

Washed up by some long ago flood,

And now here beside me,

Black and white

In your lace trimmed

hounds tooth.

Your hands

Anchored so easily

Between my legs.

As we watched

The people and

The dogs,

The smoke rising in the distance,

And the thinning sun,

Setting.

You knelt closer

And I felt

Some cool murmur,

the smooth

dark lining

Of your heart,

and the coming night.