I Dressed Up as a Husband for My Wedding

I Dressed Up as a Husband for My Wedding

Marriage

I was married once, at least 
we thought about it, it was in 
b&w, we were tiny, walking
in a forest, the trees dwarfed
us—the trees had been married
forever, moss hung from their 
fallen branches, we had to
step over them. We put on 
the costumes—groom, bride—
these are jobs, I realized, that 
only last a couple hours. Why 
not try it, what could we lose, 
we were already deep inside 
the forest, we were already lost, 
marriage was just where the path 
was headed—I thought it would 
make us more like the trees, 
growing closer every year. I
wanted you to put your hand 
out, to pull me closer, I wanted 
all the way in. A child would be 
the glue. Was it wrong to think of 
a child as glue? Too late, we were 
already in our costumes, we’d already 
had a shower, maybe someone 
would give us a red toaster. It was 
just another day to get through, 
even if it felt like everyone was 
talking through long cardboard
tubes. In the distance, the Empire 
State Building, no matter where
we were we could find a window 
or a roof & it would be lit up red
or blue or green & that would 
tell us what month we were in.
We could even climb it (it’s not 
impossible) & then look back 
at all the windows we had looked 
at it through, all over the city, 
waking up in strange rooms, 
& there it was, waiting. It was
the tallest for a while & then
it wasn’t & then it was again.

 

Anemones

My daughter puts her face 
beside a photo of her infant 

self, tries to make the same 
face. All of this is a simulacrum, 

she whispers. The anemones 
on the white table need 

water, even though 

they are, technically, dead. I 
tell her the story of the guillotine, how 

the head, as it rolls away, 
looks back at its own body, 

how the heart keeps beating 
ten minutes after it is 

pulled from the chest. How 
if you sit before anything 

long enough, it will 
become something else—

that maple, say, bare
when you find it, then it brightens

to that green shimmer,
which becomes a deeper green, 

& even that turns yellow, then 
orange, then red.