Epithalamium

I was betrothed to the river, a boy with barely a fulcrum in his mouth. But I knew how to fix things. In the mudroom I became a monsoon. Or I could lower my voice to a sunflower seed and infiltrate the pipes. The night before my wedding I was ordered to stand in the rain until every part of me shriveled, to make a practice of being alone. When I was born I was told I mattered less than gargantuan things. I was forced to bend like a tree chiseled down to the white. I discovered that the maker of the noose loves the noose. I was married with hands tied behind my back. I counted doves in the sky to portend escape. I became wine recorking itself so as not to bleed. There are too many things that break other things in this world. Whirlwinds lack purpose, but my river could choose. The maker of the pistol loves how the pistol imposes its will on the body. During the honeymoon I slit the river’s throat. Gave the catfish that slipped out to a clear lake. I promised they would finally be loved.