Apr/May 2006 Poetry Special Feature


by Arlene Ang


Autumn. I'm already going to six months.
The priest is drawn to the bulge
in my gown: satin dares a name that sways
between Deryn and Marthe. He loses
his place in the gospel. Once, twice, thrice.

Paul is no saint; I am no virgin.
Diamond gleams with sinister flaws.
Is it his family physician in the front row
that makes me wonder why I said yes?

My sister hints he never obtained divorceó
his second wife cashes my checks.
The baby kicks at this. It's the perfect day
for a garden wedding: the bush sculptures
turned out well; there is punch for everyone.

Murmurous guests form vertical files
behind my back. Tulle veils dark clouds,
the low flight of birds assume properties
of rice, of gypsy amulets against the evil eye.

Then, it is over in a whirlwind minute:
the chairs overturned, Paul irretrievable
like an umbrella from a loose grip.
The cake sags with rain. And here,
the bride figurine lies facedown in mud.


Previous Piece Next Piece