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(Finally, this wedding: Mayflower Hotel, July 2006)

Each course a metaphor: Ripe

melons’ curled prosciutto tongues.

Rare meats, sliced succulent with

hunter sauce. The sun-struck contours of

a lush gold peach. Dark melted chocolate,

suave as the woodwind section

of a summer orchestra.

Oaths may be good, but currents shift

while set meals have a place for

each -- even absence, even sorrow.

So square the circle, beat the drum:

our bridegroom and dear bride, so

long delayed, have come

to sound a spell as old as flutes

in glades. Father Sky

and Mother Earth, bind them in the dance

of realignment and rebirth.

Like hawks and fishes, let them

find their lives in motion and in

being still, and let them be

as wine in glass that glows translucently.

This table’s our desire, our wish to them

for ease and wonder, joint surprise.

So as they tender love and launch

their craft, please grant us

grace, and pause yourselves:

alight; descend.


First published in District Lines Vol III (Politics & Prose, Winter 2016)

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