The vows hover like smoke and glitter, his mind
clichéd with memory: faces, hands, and smoke
of New Years’ night, his search for empty. His find
was her. They ran on beaches, talked and joked
as in a novel, first kiss taken, thunder
and lightning, roses, whole nine yards. Six Flags,
the Sky Coaster. He never stopped to wonder
if she loved him, and now, behind her shag
of lace, wisdom replays: But he’s so smitten!
Free-falling, she had darked the nothing, borne
by wind. In childhood, she had reached for kittens
in wild rose bushes, where the thorns had torn
her, like the panic of forgotten lines
in plays. She puts her hand out for the ring.
T. R. Poulson, a University of Nevada alum and proud Wolf Pack fan, lives in San Mateo, California. Her work has appeared, or is forthcoming in various journals and anthologies, including Rattle, Booth, Poets Speaking to Poets: Echoes and Tributes, Jabberwock Review, Aethlon: The Journal of Sport Literature, Verdad, Mezzo Cammin, New Verse News, and Main Street Rag. She supports her poetry habit by working as a driver for UPS.
