Alex Patriquin

Marginalia & found poetry. Short fiction and other projects. Musings  on startups. Photos from NYC and travels.

Wedding Night

I didn’t have to grow into this longing,
or work too hard to glow

among the sinking and resurrecting shadows
underneath the rocking flowerbaskets 
on the chapel porch. Every swan-neck and gloved hand bent

to fidget with and fine-tune my veil, as if beneath it 
burned a single tenuous candleflame in a flooded cellar,
or crocus broken open in dead of winter.

All night, while you kept my ruched avalanche hitched up almost over my head,
a black dog five hands high prowled outside.

Not a literal omen, his sleek substance–
superlative, masculine, shadowy sign without meaning–

no, though this was what I’d called for.

Pilferer, rifler, filcher.

from Swallow: Poems by Miranda Field