With Reservations

The wedding will be in spring, or maybe fall.

I haven’t set a date, or picked a venue

(perhaps somewhere in the city, I think)

or given any thought to food, or to my dress

or which stone (princess cut?) I want my ring

to be. I haven’t even chosen a husband 


yet. And yes, I do know that the husband

is negotiable; at any point, I could fall

for someone, but I won’t. My bridesmaids make a ring

around me, faces blurred. I’ll call the venue

a year in advance, maybe, and dress

myself in something they’ll think 


is nicer than pajamas. I think

that for now I won’t focus on a husband;

I can’t love one, anyway, and there’s the dress,

the caterers, the bridesmaids, music, spring or fall?

No need for romance when there’s a venue

to rent out, but let the phone ring


off the hook, I won’t pick up. I dropped the ring

I never bought into the lake; do you think

it’s gone forever? I hope so. The venue

hopes I’ll cancel. I’ll cast the role of “husband”

when I feel like it and reschedule for fall,

scrub the white wine out of my graduation dress.


When summer’s over, then I’ll dress

myself in white, throw a party, crash one, ring

doorbells asking, have you heard? I can’t fall

in love but I tried anyway. I think

this may be a lost cause. My husband

stands by the water at our venue 


watching the fish swim together. The venue

rents him out like a tux. My dress 

cost me half as much as he did, this husband 

and his pretense he’s looking for my ring,

as if a fish would hold it in its mouth and bring it back. I think

about pushing him into the water. Would he fall


with all the grace that the venue guaranteed? Would the ring

and water rust his finger green, this tarnished husband, would he think

of me watching in my stained dress? There’s no point. He won’t fall.