Wedding, and

Wedding, and

Purim, so no veils—we started behind hand-made masks,
yours bright blue, a butterfly with glued-on jewels,
mine pink, cat's eyes, yellow feathers; and our task

in white satin pumps together to smash that glass
leaving jagged cuts to repair, but with what tools?
During the ceremony we'd pulled aside the masks,

to open wide to each other, in joy to bask.
It is the sharpness of those cuts I heal
and the soft plume of seeing, the task.

We dripped into our children who danced
in superhero masks, climbed hills and fell.
And sometimes it was a ball.

And sometimes into their rooms at night I steal
to hear them breathing. And wish to stall
their melting clocks. Skin raw beneath, we peel

away the masks. And you and I clasp, falter
like mosaic, is that our task? Again and
again, refashion the blood-kissed glass?