the promise looks more beautiful in the sun. gleaming
unbreakable on her finger; they are gathered into
warm arms, unsweetened
jasmine swishing grit off of porcelain. the rice pools
prophecy at the bottom and goes
unread. they do not stay to see any rot in old
leaves so it never existed. imagine
choosing no one with nothing to offer but
the dirt under their fingernails, sugared
from the morning pastry, stolen from the hotel lobby.
she doesn’t do anything of the sort; goes home that
night and sees her prismatic future dance on the
wall, surrounded by light
on their wedding day, no one begs
and he stands beside her, an expression like cedar bark.
her dress so dazzling it’s hard to see
anything but the moment, the tears of her mother
on the sleeve, greying white till it melts
into champagne glasses, poured down gaping
mouths. he doesn’t begrudge the abundance;
his prize was fairly won. they flit through spain and italy and
france. my mother devours
the world, Jörmungandr with a taste of the end
in her mouth. she often lies
dead-center on a king, machine whir cradling her
like deferential hands don't.
I am a dream she has late at night like an
affair, a child with dark eyes
and darker hands, a mirror of no one.
