when they pronounce us spouse & spouse

at the altar, my father will raise his brow.

he sees grief as a woman in a tuxedo,

standing beside the ghost of his daughter,

a person who learned to put love

in the hands of someone who addresses them

by their real name.

 

when they say that we are forever unified by a ring,

a symbol of a promise that a grey-haired alcoholic wouldn’t ever know how to make,

I will pick the rot from underneath my fingernails and bury it in the peace I find knowing myself ——

in other words, shattering his lens and opening my own eyes every morning,

black coffee, oatmilk creamer, and an acoustic guitar that belongs to only me.