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