To the Person Who Stole My Camera
For Gayle Q. Crocker
You know who you are. Who am I?
Not the bride, but someone
in the same room as she and her maids
lean fish-mouthed into the mirror
putting on lipstick under the calm gaze
of a stuffed pronghorn buck. You
can't feel how soft his hide is,
nor hear the homely music the chatter
of aunts was sending up the stairs-
"Where are the cups, dear?" "Emily,
careful with that lamp now." The colors,
you might have those, bluebonnet, wine
cup, yellow weesatch and foamy fields
of white bull nettle. The steers
of Crocker Ranch, dun and red and brown,
stared from fenced-off range while
a light wind tossed the ladies' dresses.
Can you tell how our high heels
sank into the ground as we stood under
the live oak, grinning for the mix
and match of family group shots?
There's the preacher, tall and spare
in his clerical collar and cowboy hat,
his armadillo-bound outsize Bible cradled
respectfully in the crook of his elbow,
saying that he surely does love
performing a marriage. Yes, that is
me in the red dress and pink carnation,
one of the sisters, leaning against
the big whitewashed house where my new
brother-in-law grew up, eating German
Structure
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