Epithalamion Beloved, as you and I stand face-to-face on reclamation land littered with yesterday’s luau, just a block away from the HIV testing center where the island runs to when it’s run out of condoms, lube, and instant coffee and, four blocks from there, the bookmobile I loved disappearing into, until you found me on MySpace, my head at two-thirty tilt, my smile fuller than a Cherry Blossom contestant, the way I’m smiling now, at us, and squinting, too, from too much sun and not enough wind, as Tina, ordained minister through the Internet and certified by State of Hawaii, declares you and me officially man and groom, while your mom and my mom, who beat the alarm to pencil her eyebrows, shed tears with your grandma and Sue, envy of fat fags and hags. They ditched lunch to be with us. Yama, too, friend from Day One, and Auntie Rose and Uncle Mike who took the first flight out of North Carolina to eat Spam and be wedding witnesses, and my dad in the wheelchair, fighting for his right leg. Even Auntie Mari has skipped water aerobics so she can snap her granddaughter Malina out of her flower girl role. Except for your dad and my dearest friend Glenn who saved me when I couldn’t, and, oh, yeah, Zack, who is still constipated in Buenos Aires from too much steak, perfect attendance otherwise for rice shower and I do’s. And should this faithful day turn health into hell, or time run us over, or you go ballistic because of my selfmade millionaire gimmicks; in other words, should you decide to take off with the good times and leave me with love alone, I will take it, as I take you now with this vow, on this day of refuge and reclamation, when happiness and eternity, mine and ours, are one again. R. Zamora Linmark
Posted on: Thu, 27 Jun 2013 03:45:24 +0000
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