After my dad died, you married me
beneath the tree from which the tire swing
still hangs whitely, spray painted for show
by whatever nuclear family lived here last—
he didn’t get the chance to see us go legal;
we didn’t even have to leave the state. I wore
a black dress— which gave me a waspish thorax,
which bore my ghostly legs—and I promptly
ruined it on the wash cycle. Its fastenings no longer
fasten. New grief, old dress, and the timeworn,
abysmal closet. We’ll be wed until they say we are not.
I’d break all of the bones to be safe with you in public.
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