Epithalamion
       

It was a hotel wedding
in the days of early spring

with a sheer white veil and roses
a 24-karat ring

and everyone wanted to climb the stairs
to dance with the bride

in her plush brassiere
her bitter garter and snowy dress

bearing them up like a sacrifice
with their ballast of fallen tears.

Someone told me her toenails
were painted indigo blue

the color of night or a raincloud
inside her seed-pearl shoes

while the band played on
full of nostalgia

above Division Street's misty cars
for weddings come and weddings gone.

They played the mambo
and Pennies from Heaven,

their black tuxedos embroidered with stars
like Sirius, Rigel or Ganymede

Jupiter's largest moon
with its hidden ocean sixty miles deep

under the silicate's shadowy plains,
under its curved icy grooves.

And here was no ancient mariner,
earthbound, stopping a guest at the door

with a crooked tale of wandering
over some cruelty that happened before

for this was a ritual entirely made new
with vows both silent and spoken

though everyone present already knew
each day they could be broken

for the stairs going up are the stairs going down
from the attic to the dirt cellar floor

and far beyond, the river would flow on
over its distant shore.

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Copyright © 2022 Joseph Millar All rights reserved
from Dark Harvest
Carnegie Mellon University Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission