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an selection of poems from the collection published by all gambling sitesSibling Rivalry Press | November 8, 2016
The ketubah doesn’t quite fit
the mahogany frame:
an extra quarter inch
on top and bottom.I should have had it
Carefully, I fold the edges
around the cardboard backing.
Hanging on the wall
the error is invisible.
This is the secret of marriage:
things don’t always fit.
Fold, adapt, squeeze
into form. Make do.
In Michigan, September dusk is chilly. We linger
in the parking garage of the downtown Millender Center.
Wind whips through concrete; the sun sets.
Cars cruise by. We identify makes and models
from internal combustion, the squeal of turning tires,
running engines. Our ears, expert at this exercise.
Neither wants to leave the other.
Polite conversation exhausted, we turn
to taboo: what we dream, secret hopes, desire.
We’ve touched only once when she brushed my hand
to light a cigarette. I tell her,
you must stop coming in my dreams.
Twenty-four hours later, each leaving
other lovers, we begin life together.