My Mother Getting Married

by Jessica Popeski


It’s glorious through the window,
yellow rushing in
dripping sun-tiles on the carpet,
and laughter, and birdsong.
My mother getting married,
divine in hydrangea blue,
not white,
my grandmother beneath
her silver hair halo,
chiffon-soft, age-flecked
hands folded, thoughtful.
Not everyone gets to see their
mother getting married.
When the war is over,
families gutted,
a crocus splits the
debris of divorce,
mauve defying shrapnel.
Those gathered are
threadbare but fat,
gorged on love,
erupting volcanic applause.
We clot below blossom-loaded
branches, milling, kissing,
full-palm backslapping.
I always wanted a big family.

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