The Bride

(printed in Concrete's Venue 398)

I knew I was her

when I was taller

felt a blood heat to see his falseness,

inhaled the palace and hummed over

the siren of his private telephone,

the laughter of its ring.

I knew I was her

when I balled

up my fists and carved crescents

etched in girly pink,

a permanent itching bouquet.

(they later credit this as his own work)

I knew I was her

when I saw the ripples

of my chiffon spilling around me

like a perfect smear of icing,

a white gorge at the bottom

of the staircase,

felt a reckless rising

movement when lying still,

roamed the empty pews

and pictured them in flames.

I knew I was her

when they called me a child.

I hurled myself at the glass

to get his attention.

My pain was transactional,

and yet he wrote my vows,

fastened my belt.

Although I was alone in the car

I knew she was with me,

scarred hand in mine

as we soared over the drop,

two angels laughing.

I knew I was with her

when we printed our names

in the absence we left behind.

Not his work. Never his.

Our voices will fill the space

that he cleared to throw us

away.