Wedding Dress

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.