The Long Evenings of Their Leavetakings

My mother was married by the water. She wore a gray coat and a winter rose. She said her vows beside a cold seam of the Irish coast. She said her vows near the shore where the emigrants set down their consonantal n: on after n oo n, on the e n d of everything, at the start of ever. Yellow vestments took in light. A chalice hid underneath its veil. Her hands were full of calla and cold-weather lilies. The mail packet dropped anchor. A black-headed gull swerved across the harbor. Icy promises rose beside a crosshatch of ocean and horizon. I am waiting for the words of the service. I am waiting for keep thee only and all my earthly. All I hear is an afternoon’s worth of never.