I’m the Bride this Time

I’m the bride this time

in strapless-white lace

that’s hard plastered around my torso,

a strand of pearls lazy

around my wrist,

freshly colored streaks of pale-corn blonde

in my hair,

a fragile, ivory net around my face

to hide wide eyes from the groom

so he can’t see my pupils rove

around

looking for an EXIT

that doesn’t come in a neon sign,

(just a safety precaution, I’m sure).

There are the bridesmaids in rosy taffeta

swishing their skirts like little girls,

twinkles in their blush-shimmering eyes

as they look at the groomsmen

who are fixing their sleeve cuffs,

and I think they look happier than I.

The wind is thick like gravy,

the light dim-grey and blue

the bouquets are immaculate white roses and carnations,

my dress is too tight,

the groom is so nervous,

I’m sure,

so I want to unbutton the top three buttons

of his shirt

to set him free (just a little of course),

and I can’t

quite

catch

my

breath

so I sip water until I have to pee

but I know the toilet seat is stained

and I don’t want to dirty my dress

—I’m the bride this time.

My mother is staring at me,

a tender wince

in the rainy-sky blue of her eyes.

I’m not so sure this is the happiest day of my life.

I don’t even look that good.

This corset of a dress causes my excess skin

to spill over so it’s hard to tell where

the bursted breast begins and where the fat ends.

My mother is smiling at me

while she watches Lucy fix my braid,

a smile that makes me want to cry

because that’s exactly how I looked

at all the other brides before me,

a gentle passive acceptance of the truth

that this happiness with always be inaccessible,

cold as ocean-fish flesh,

that this tailored-white-dress-beauty dream will never exist for herself,

such sacred loveliness always out of reach

and I want to hold her and scream,

“mom, I’m not that happy!”

I’m miserable, fat and full of pee,

but

I’m the bride this time.