epithalamium
We mistook the wedding
for a funeral. The beginning
for the end. Too much white
satin and bits of fur. An easy
mistake in the museum’s dim light.
The fright we felt thicken
In our tiny bodies like a mouse.
We line up in the pews and sing hallelijah
but God cares not for the small
things, belly crawl and twisted tail.
Even perfect, we were already
broken. The farmer who wrapped us
in pillowcases and set us loose
in the river. Never stood a chance,
floating our way toward happiness.
Or here, where the halogens flicker
but we’re too blind to know
Which is the bride? Which is the ghost?
Which creature holds the bouquet?
Which the flowers on the grave?
