The Bride

A bride is not mouth and finger;

she is not footfalls and keys
nor smolder nor the fortress of tulle and feather,
not tongue, not an amnesiac, nor a ringed exit;

she is not a laughing kitchen of oil and milk,
nor a funeral
nor bracelets and hairpins,
she is not the quiver and the pitch;

she is not the stature of devils,
not the breastplate of afternoons,
not dread and insomnia,
not hen or egg;

the bride could never be the tureen or the charger plate;
she is not corbels and prayers,
nor the sheet music
nor the watering or wrist,

she is not the blade;
she is not Mayakovsky;
she is not Hopper in Truro;

she will not be harlequin
nor the rose period
nor will she be lashes and darling.

 

 

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