Circe

The brim of my hat knocks your shoulder

as we stand, close to one another.

And up the aisle, towards four priests

walks Penny, on her father's arm,

her train straightened by a bridesmaid.

I am looking around at the relatives

I met a month ago, at the bridesmaids' hair,

curled and brown, at the winged icons,

scrolls, angels, doves.

Afterwards we stop in a deli.

You say you don't like my hat,

broad-brimmed, straw, edged in black

to match the splash of black across

my dress, over scarlet, purple, lapis.

On the village lawns chickadees

and robins preen themselves;

the sod, rolled out, pressed down,

reaches to the tarmac border.

Now, as just before sleep,

I am looking far down, coasting over

fields, plains, hills, roads that open

out before me, and I see myself in miniature

beside your tiny figure.

Small enough for the top of the cake,

your stiff body, that slopes a perfect

triangle from shoulders to waist.

You wear a pale suit.

I can see your dark hair, the back

of your neck where I once shaved

the new-grown hair. I rise away. I turn.

The hull splitting when you came to me.

From that distance I let

you see a vision of me. Your heart,

like a snail, turning its blind head

towards me. On my skin, the trails

of your fingers glistened.

So I put aside my guise: wings, feathers.

Last night you braced me

against the hotel wall and collapsed. Hero.

Now there is the rest of your journey.

You'll find some girl, marry her.

Withdrawn, like a snail, male and female

in the same body, sufficient.

You turn the spoon over and over,

adjust the cup in its saucer. Swine.