So I tried to write a poem celebrating marriage. I actually wrote one last year, which I read at a friend's wedding. I wanted to write a new one though. Instead, I ended up with a sort of anti-epithalamium. It just worked out that way.
Not as Domestic
as We Thought
Love sets down in
a yellow place
a kitchen, Dutch
cheese, a glass of beer.
It wipes the stove
but leaves a trace
of grease and
garlic-scented air.
The cat who
settles on the dusty sill
the dog beside the
bed
love lights there,
or where it will
and wanders off
instead.
