Brad Johnson Delray Beach (Peter Schmidt)
Married Saturday Mornings I don’t want to let you out of bed this Saturday morning. While a storm lifts the curtains of the open windows and whiffs of rain sweep through the sliding glass door, I don’t want to roll over, don’t want you to sit up, don’t want the telephone to ring or you to dial because then I will have lost you to your friend in Happy Valley who’s getting married to a Methodist archeologist from Missouri, or to your other friend who’s getting married outside of New Haven one week from yesterday and the dresses don’t fit. The best man’s threatening to not show. The last wedding we attended, in Michigan two weeks ago, was my Irish-Scottish friend’s and I wore a kilt and long wool stockings and no underwear and a little satchel around my waist where I kept a flask filled with whiskey. We’ve been married one month and I don’t want to let you out of bed this Saturday morning. I’ve heard if you put a marble in a jar for every time you have sex during the first year of marriage and remove one marble for each time you have sex anytime after, you’ll never empty the jar. I want to fill that jar and empty that jar, construct new jars, shape marble sculptures, fashion monuments, employ museum curators, assemble gardens. Originally published in New Zoo Poetry Review in 2006. |
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