The Wedding Planner
We will marry on a beach.
No! In a forest! You will arrive
on horseback, a grey dappled steed.
I will have a dress like Maid Marion.
Or Marilyn Monroe.
It will be a dress the colour
of creme de cassis and rubies,
or crushed beetles.
I will be Marilyn. You will be Bobby.
Or Einstein. It doesn’t matter who.
They’ll photograph me, in the dress, over a vent
above a subway. The reception will be
in New York, New York. You?
You will be there, of course, Silly.
We’ll live happily ever after.
You’ll become successful.
We will have half conversations
your half never matching mine,
and later, I will practice selective smashing,
cry carefully on cue,
you will look bewildered and say
‘I can’t do this’.
One of us will keep the house,
the other find their self,
mostly in wine bars
and bikram yoga lessons.
One of us will bend a wedding photo back and forth
until a seam appears, then a crack,
and someone’s mother will stab biro marks
at a photo of someone’s face, muttering