Caroline Bird

She arrived at the country mansion in a silver limousine. She’d sent out invitations and everything: her name written twice with “&” in the middle, the calligraphy of coupling. She strode down the aisle to “At Last” by Etta James, faced the celebrant like a keen soldier reporting for duty, her voice shaky yet sure. I do. I do. “You may now kiss the mirror.” Applause. Confetti. Every single one of the hundred and forty guests deemed the service “unimprovable.” Especially the vows. So “from the heart.” Her wedding gown was ivory; pointedly off-white, “After all, we’ve shared a bed for thirty-two years,” she quipped in her first speech, “I’m hardly virginal if you know what I mean.” (No one knew exactly what she meant.) Not a soul questioned their devotion. You only had to look at them. Hand cupped in hand. Smiling out of the same eyes. You could sense their secret language, bone-deep, blended blood. Toasts were frequent, tearful. One guest eyed his wife — hovering harmlessly at the bar — and imagined what his life might’ve been if he’d responded, years ago, to that offer in his head: “I’m the only one who will ever truly understand you. Marry me, Derek. I love you. Marry me.”

I surrender my weapons: Catapult Tears, Rain-Cloud Hat, Lip Zip, Brittle Coat, Taut Teeth in guarded rows. Pluck this plate of armor from my ear, drop it in the Amnesty Bin, watch my sadness land among the dark shapes of memory. Unarmed, now see me saunter past Ticking Baggage, Loaded Questions, Gangs of Doubt; my love equips me. I swear, ever since your cheeky face span round I trust this whole bloody world.