May 10, 2010

Scene from a wedding

I catch the bouquet. It lands like
a crown of thorns. A dozen roses
well up in my palms, blowing full & furling
back unto themselves, pulsing
little hearts. I could crush them
if I made a fist, but I do not
make a fist. Not yet.

The bride screams,
laughing, merry
in her merry-widow under the dress
she didn't choose.

"You're next!" she cries, an abnormally happy
waiting-room nurse, pristine
as though she'd never seen a bleed.

I smile a winner's smile,
wave aloft my second-hand prize,
making a fist,
petals raining down like little lies.

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