I’m the Bride this Time
I’m the bride this time
in strapless-white lace
that’s hard plastered around my torso,
a strand of pearls lazy
around my wrist,
freshly colored streaks of pale-corn blonde
in my hair,
a fragile, ivory net around my face
to hide wide eyes from the groom
so he can’t see my pupils rove
around
looking for an EXIT
that doesn’t come in a neon sign,
(just a safety precaution, I’m sure).
There are the bridesmaids in rosy taffeta
swishing their skirts like little girls,
twinkles in their blush-shimmering eyes
as they look at the groomsmen
who are fixing their sleeve cuffs,
and I think they look happier than I.
The wind is thick like gravy,
the light dim-grey and blue
the bouquets are immaculate white roses and carnations,
my dress is too tight,
the groom is so nervous,
I’m sure,
so I want to unbutton the top three buttons
of his shirt
to set him free (just a little of course),
and I can’t
quite
catch
my
breath
so I sip water until I have to pee
but I know the toilet seat is stained
and I don’t want to dirty my dress
—I’m the bride this time.
My mother is staring at me,
a tender wince
in the rainy-sky blue of her eyes.
I’m not so sure this is the happiest day of my life.
I don’t even look that good.
This corset of a dress causes my excess skin
to spill over so it’s hard to tell where
the bursted breast begins and where the fat ends.
My mother is smiling at me
while she watches Lucy fix my braid,
a smile that makes me want to cry
because that’s exactly how I looked
at all the other brides before me,
a gentle passive acceptance of the truth
that this happiness with always be inaccessible,
cold as ocean-fish flesh,
that this tailored-white-dress-beauty dream will never exist for herself,
such sacred loveliness always out of reach
and I want to hold her and scream,
“mom, I’m not that happy!”
I’m miserable, fat and full of pee,
but
I’m the bride this time.