wed
by Jeff Pearson
I’m afraid the bride might
sink like her baby blanket of a veil
into Bloomington lake.
Cradled in a cove of the Wasatch mountains
she performs the elementary backstroke.
I’d rather her in a swimming pool,
the depth of the lake unknown. To
the delight of the wedding party who
stare up at the maw of the peaks
and the reflection rounded into a giant bear trap,
the bride used a rope swing to get
out near the deep part. Should they follow
into the water like an aquatic procession
swinging one at a time off the rope over the rocks
or wallow in the lilies on the bank
singing, “When ya gonna get mar-ried
mar-ried, mar-ried, when ya gonna get
mar-ried sweet little buffalo boy?” The
bride yells, “The only thing real in me
is the clouds and the sky, and they mean
nothing.”