At my wedding,

There will not be an orchestra,

No string quartet.

No, there will be no well-postured men in stiff tuxedos

playing tightly tuned cellos at my wedding.

At my wedding, I will not have




I will not be wearing white, and-

A side note to my husband-to-be-

I will not be wearing a

Diamond engagement ring,

Mined out of some war-ridden African country.

I most definitely will not

exchange vows.

At my wedding,

No priest or reverend will sanctify my marriage.

I refuse to be religiously validated inside some




At my wedding,

A gap-toothed accordioniste

Will play smoky Frank Sinatra covers,

Like twenty grey-haired tenors

Whistling in harmony.

At my wedding,

The grills will be overflowing with coal,

Fueling the sweet smell

Of smoked meats.

At my wedding,

Expect me in a gown of yellow

(A reliable color- like

sunrise, or

Summer squash.)

And would a shiny, precision cut diamond perfectly accent

My wedding ensemble?


I am certain to lose something so small,

So arbitrarily symbolic.

And words,

Words for such an occasion-

What words could describe something as perfect

As a wedding?

My husband and I know better.

Words are only meant for

misunderstood hearts.

Emotion that the eyes won't sanctify.

Often times, meaning is lost

When it is eventually


On paper, in throats.

When you stumble over simple communication,

You are doing too much talking

Perhaps even,

Too much listening

And not enough looking.

At my wedding,

You will not forget

To look.

The love will not

Be underneath a veil,

Trapped in a diamond,

Carelessly handled by a over-zealous preacher,

Or between the syllables of thousand-times rehearsed