Bustling the Bride

So after she’s dragged her train across the rose garden,up through the hotel, down the carpeted steps to me,I’m on the ground in my own fancy satin, headawkwardly under my girl’s vast skirt. I’m searchingin this dark, over my glasses, for the tiny color-codedthreads, the diminutive loops, the slippery ribbons.Everyone has bunched onto the huge porchfor a wide-angle photo. My father is thereand stands for the shot as they pull his wheelchairout of the picture. I find the right ties, gatherand hoist her dress like a sail. Tonight, we ridethe evening’s current, our backs to the wind, ourfaces to joy. I will never wear this iridescent dress again.