Poetry
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Marriage
by Amy Gerstler
Romance is a world, tiny and curved, reflected in a spoon. Perilous
as a clean sheet of paper. Why begin? Why
sully and crumple a perfectly good surface? Lots of reasons. Sensuality,
need for relief, curiosity. Or it's your mission. You
could blame the mating instinct: a squat little god carved from shit-colored
wood. NO NO NO. It's not dirty. The
plight of desire, a longing to consort, to dally, bend over, lose yourself…be
rubbed till you're shiny as a new minted utensil. A monogrammed
butterknife, modern pattern or heirloom? It's a time of plagues
and lapses, rips in the ozone layer's bridal veil. One must
take comfort in whatever lap one can. He wanted her to bite
him, lightly. She wanted to drink a quart of water and get to
bed early. Now that's what I call an exciting date. In
the voodoun religion, believers can marry their gods. Some nuns
wed Jesus, but they have to cut off all their hair first. He's
afraid he'll tangle in it, trip and fall. Be laid low. Get
lost. Your face: lovely and rough as a gravestone. I
kiss it. I do.
In a more pragmatic age many brides' veils later served as their burying
shrouds. After they'd paid their dues to mother nature, they
commanded last respects. Wreaths, incense, and satin in crypts. In
India, marriage of children is common. An army of those who
died young marches through your studio this afternoon to rebuke you for closing
your eyes to the fullness of the world. But when they get close
enough to read what's written on your forehead, they realize you only did what
was necessary. They hurriedly skip outside to bless your car,
your mangy lawn, and the silver floss tree which bows down in your front yard.
His waiting room is full of pious heathens and the pastor calls them into his
office for counseling, two by two. Once you caressed me in a
restaurant by poking me with a fork. In those days, any embrace
was a strain. In the picture in this encyclopedia, the oriental
bride's headdress looks like a paper boat. The caption says:
"Marriage in Japan is a formal, solemn ceremony." O
bride, fed and bedded down on a sea of Dexatrim, tea, rice, and quinine, can you
guide me? Is the current swift? Is there a
bridge? What does this old fraction add up to: you over me? Mr.
Numerator on top of Miss Denominator? The two of us divided by
a line from a psalm, a differing line of thinking, the thin bloodless line of
your lips pressed together. At the end of the service, guests
often toss rice or old shoes. You had a close shave, handsome. Almost
knocked unconscious by a flying army boot, while your friends continued to
converse nonchalantly under a canopy of mosquito netting. You
never recognized me darling, but I knew you right away. I know
my fate when I see it. But it's bad luck to lay eyes on each
other before the appropriate moment. So look away. Even
from this distance, and the chasm is widening (the room grows huge), I kiss your
old and new wounds. I kiss you. I do.