Look over your shoulder for the hustle of words.
Sunday, February 4, 2007
Upon meeting Him Who Will Be Your Husband
Wake. The clothes, starched, pressed, smooth
against the bed were still, said still words to me
(calm calm calm yourself woman, be still like us).
Prepare. The shatter of water and
squeezed-tight-eyes and shampoo everywhere
and shit, shit, where is the towel?
Hands stumbled like kindergarten children
clutching, fumbling, grabbing.
Mistake. The plan is askew, you
are behind a deadlock without a key.
Trapped here while he waits,
what to do? Set your jaw, become a reverse burglar
and break out. Later you will worry about
the dislodged screen, hanging like a
dead open palm. No time, no time!
The rest flows around you.
You are in the stream, you see the minute
motes and strings of experience above, beside you.
His pale face, his hair in puckered curls,
his tight body hugging you, reluctantly releasing you
(he wanted to hold me longer, I think, did I imagine that?).
His mother pouring tea into bone cups and clattering
about weather and university and you both
nervously staring across the room
not hearing a word;
only eyes and hands are working today.
Yes, you are still.