Her wedding dress
lays folded
finally finished
the last stitch knotted
buttons on
hem pressed
waiting to hang
till it graces her
lovely shoulders.
It wasn't made in China
in a factory assembled
by strange hands or
checked by quality control
before being shipped to
the mall store.
There were times
my insecurity wanted
it to be tagged and
stickered and priced
sophisticated like that,
but I couldn't talk her
out of homemade.
She picked the lace
and floating silk chiffon
that layers over a weighty
silk satin skirt.
"Mama, could you
make it have a small
train and leave the back
open like this?"
She doesn't know
I couldn't make myself
use the hem stitch foot
to roll the bottom
easy and quick. I needed
to thread the needle -
slip stitching love
five per inch.
She doesn't know I
pricked my finger,
hoping no blood stains
remained.
.
She doesn't know I
found the cat laying on
it like the Queen of Sheba
nestled in a silk stole.
After the wedding
guests leave he'll
unbutton the waist
that I button up
before their vows.
They prepare promises
to forsake all others
and cleave to one
another in sickness
and in health, for
better or worse, until
death parts them.
I hate being left so they
may do the needed
forsaking part.
She doesn't know
she's taking
my sunshine
away.
He doesn't know
what it feels like
yet, to be the moon.
