i pity you, the one who claims to want
to marry me. i think of how distasteful it all is
for you: how the color of the dress is a judgment
on you—although it’s not much of a surprise
if we have to go with eggshell or ivory because well
i think you’re family knows; and mine can assume
and be only half-right. even so we could lift up your skirt
to look inside—to see if it is broken (which logic will tell you
is not a good indicator of purity, and purity
is never a good indicator of good)
but i have nothing: i am home-free, safe
from scrutinies—what are they going to look for?
no one can say that my black tux should be white.
no one can look down on me and see any trace
of lusting: except maybe the darkened strip
where i gripped too hard
but frankly no one wants to see that anyway.
i figure you could wear black or brown
or even red if you really wanted to
because your family already knows
and mine can only assume (my family has reserves
against white things anyway—i think it comes from
California or Texas
or somewhere else out west). who needs a wedding
anyway? who needs your family and mine judging
the both of us? saying that you aren’t wearing white
or that there’s no way i’ll make enough money
for the kids that we may or may not have (if it’s
judging we want to prevent, we should wait until
after the reception to tell our parents, if that
is the case (but let’s make it not the case)).
i know someone will shout something
when we have the priest announce us as
“partners” because i know you hate “wife”:
someone in the sea of Catholics is going to hate you
for being so damn stubborn and going to hate me
for letting you walk all over me like that (their words,
not mine). but i don’t really give a damn
because we don’t need the attention—at least
you don’t; i can live without it if that helps you get through
our special day.