Marriage Metamorphoses
Waiting in the fragmented night—
trivialities crawling at me ghoulishly,
hard and software, midi connections
activated ports channeling my worry—
at my console, inconsolable.
But that my baby’s comin’ home.
Late. She’s always late.
Makes me wait for her
inscrutable “Who’s he?” look.
Sweet, like a momma’s “Who’s that?” greeting
to an infant that knows no names.
The look that lets me know we remerge.
Impossibly, we do
each day, anew.
Amid my temper’s voyages
something real and crystal,
delicate and strong.
“I do,” I’ll say in half a year.
But “I have. I did.”
Those she’ll also hear,
because she sees this
strange creation of our
blustering hearts—
stumbled on, stumbling on
and lovely—
forming like lava cooling to
a majestic, bizarre
silhouette island
that is us,
in a sea of islands
that are the many we.
I’ll stomp and break the glass
because we’re an ancient people
—or so I read—
and know it—transparently—reforms.
- Alexander C. Kafka
