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.
