June 23, Saint Paul Cathedral

   for my daughter

 

It is your wedding day.

Maiden Lane heaves

up its cobbles near Nina

named for last century's

well-padded whore.

This city knows how to

host an assignation,

last fling before the marriage

climb, past drift of lady wings--

red smear on every landing.

 

In the loft, there is no

need for organ voluntary,

no triumphant ode to your accord

because, oh my dears,

all is rounded in the window here,

garland of lips at the flaming crossroads,

each Cupid’s bow reminiscent

of a woman's brace of eggs,

twelve on twelve,

kissing the months,

renewing the jointures.

 

All you need for life and love--

wreath of fire crowned

with desire, and one

unbending circle of necessity.

 

Please reload

© 2019 Rag Queen Periodical  website  designed by M. Perle Tahat