on our little wedding day, you stood in the rain
& said: we ought to have a darling girl.
a girl made of plastic and mass production that you
can buy for 25 cents at thrift stores, all hollow.

we held hands and pretended that the sun was smiling
and the sky was impossibly beautiful, and:
we bought our little sweet girl.

i could have sworn that when you looked in my direction you didn’t see me,
even though that ring felt like fire on my finger,
and i was making fog clouds.

so with our little girl (she was very well-behaved), she did not cry when you
threw her hard on the floor, and when i pulled her hair,
she did not scream. and when i told her she was ugly and
pulled at her brittle wrist she did not hate me.

and we were happy.

when i held your hand, it felt a little too smooth.
and when our little girl smiled up at me as i screamed at her, i was scared.
and when you looked so vulnerable standing, shivering,
on the top of that rock, i wanted to protect you with everything i had.

i wrapped you up in my arms until the rain stopped, and you said:
i don’t think this will work, but we can try darling.
thank god you bought this dress from
the cheap store, down the road.

so the sun went down and it didn’t rise until the next day,
all tired from life and our words. and by then our rings were cracked,
and that dress was dirty and torn.

we never did work, love, but i am so glad we tried.