Epithalamia

The day I got married
Was like going to jail.
Stifled in white,
Blind in a veil,
Prodded by convention,
Propelled by compulsion,
Batlike by radar
I flew in a fog
Down the dark aisle.

Under a canoopy
Heavy with flowers,
A stranger
Stripped me
Of my mortal name,
Tied me tight
In a legal knot,
And bound me
With a golden chain.

Musicians played,
And the guests all danced.
But pedestaled
On high white heels,
How could I dance?
And when I removed the silken spikes,
Then the petticoats tripped me up
And I still could not dance.
I was trapped in the net
Of a billowing gown.

Later, in a midtown hotel,
A square room,
Bedfilled.
A small grey cell
With two windows,
Both shut.

The first time
I chose to go to jail,
I felt like a bride,
Luminous with love.
The doors spread wide
To receive me,
And within our resonating chamber
My friend and I
Sang counterpoints
And harmonies.

Being a woman,
I am composed of curves,
And the older I grow
The clearer I see,
Trailing behind me
Like a long satin train,
Undulant
The parabolas of irony.