bees in the grass

news of your marriage
arrives calm, delivered
in subpoena fashion by a woman
with a permanent wave

and vows are taken, things bought.
bride like a mother to fix you lunch,
to make a bed with fast hands,
to fill it.

now all your socks sit in tidy balls
and shoes have trees. how
simply you reach this, and after what struggle:
the jaunt to mexico, the drinking.

never having touched you, i am
sour on the marriage
on the pregnant bride resplendent in yellow
on the gifts chosen in good taste.

never having broached the subject, having compared
your eyes to sapphire and done nothing, this news
of marriage brings odd alarm; i had always meant
to reach you: bees in the grass.


suzanne finnamore