The Wedding


This is where we meet, on this street, in this house of ghosts,
Ghost House, closed to the public, not on view,
Not new, but renewed nightly.

You bought it sight unseen,
For me, for us, for the wedding.

Time collects in the attic and below stairs.

This marriage is, and we are dust, I maintain.
Amused, you turn to my explanation, answering with a strange caress
That this wedding dress is cut from the same cloth as all the others,
Very old lace.

Woven, we are wed in each other's arms.

To go upstairs means that our priest conducts the
Ceremony without ceremony,
Administering the sacraments with every step we climb.

This time we've got it right, have got the right.

You are cruel and very-violet-sweet.
Beneath us, under the bed, under the sheets,
Are the dead, dancing,
Forgetting that this is not their house, their place yet.


There is certain perspicacity in these, our ghosts,
Who will not let us pause, tangled in our sweat,
While this grammar is being taught
As it always has been, ever shall be,
World without end.

Your face inspires a new consideration,
Grace to be said over your body,
Not to be mistaken for all the men
Laid in repose in this room,
Whose widows loved and mourned,
Within these same four walls.

Still, we are certain we hear candle-music, angel-music,
Visions of choirs of children born
And burning with our harmonies,
Those come down to us in myth and legend
And written in our genetic code.

We are intent on explaining ourselves
To these children until we are spent.

While we sleep,
Our ghosts consent to keep vigil
Over our bed.

March 6, 1988