a hot Sunday
late May, 1972
my roommate has just gotten married
that very morning
in the woods
wearing cut-off jeans
and a tie-dyed tank top
strands of bells
tied around her ankles
her new husband
shaved his head
for the occasion
i wore my best flannel nightgown
and a pair of knee-high brown suede boots
i was the most dressed-up one there
no minister
no rabbi
a de-frocked priest said a few words
we don’t know if it was legal
we don’t care
later, back in ithaca
we gather in a neighbor’s garden
the dogs have just woken up
confused, curious
and the chickens seem anxious
but we are not the sort of people
who eat our friends’ pets
we are people
who play tambourines and banjos
and sing out of tune
loudly
and one of us
(i won’t name a name)
goes up onto the back porch
to scratch a small poem
into the wooden floor
then it is night
we sing louder
louder
we make a fire
drink cheap wine
laugh and dance
the future waits for us
opening opening opening
everything is opening
—
NOTE:
I wrote this on Sunday, May 5, after reading THE DOGS WOKE ME UP, by Marty Cain (borrowing some words from sections 1, 2, and 3)
