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A Bridal Mistake
They cover my arms with lace, knowing that I am allergic to beauty, and
garland my hair with flowers.
Like a funeral persession the brides maids float into the room,
There lavender and gray dresses flow over the silk carpeting like an early
morning tide resting on the shore.
The march begins and I feel like a dog being guided into the room by my train.
His eyes are fixed on the virgin white of my dress, and my stomach boils with envy.
The conveniently placed statue of Mary looks to me with outstretched arms.
Cold feet freeze over and melt a path to where he stands.
Maybe the sweat from my brow can be passed off as tears.
I finally reach my destination, and my heart pulls to three sides of the isle.
One for myself.
A Second for my groom.
And a third for the truth.
I kneel down before the priest and wish that I could confess all of the sins that are lingering on my tongue.
I swallow them whole as his lips brush mine.
The frost bite on my toes has finally healed.
