by Kate Brock
I would like to be back in bed, yielding a thick potter’s mug
of peppermint tea beside you.
Instead, I stand just behind the doors to the sanctuary
waiting for my cue to waltz
down the aisle, my father’s arm held out at angle, the crook
like a shepherd’s hook meant
to keep me from straying too far away. Soon, he will set my hand
in yours. The pass complete,
I will tiptoe up the remaining steps in heels, an attempt to lessen
the drastic difference in our heights.
I will say a silent prayer about the feathers daintily dangling
from my dress, their tips fraying outwards
caught in a web of static cling, leaning to be close to you.
across the Atlantic a quiet space will wrap cotton sheets and wool
blankets about our shoulders.
We will traipse through galleries and tuck into Aphrodite’s cupboard
sifting through ingredients for the decadent
and delicate. We will curl up with a book and rest after I am unpinned
from my father’s arm.