WEDDING SONNET The bride’s outside. She’s crying on the lawn. You can see her, there, just where the aisle ends. Grass shuffling in the dawning summer storm, green-stained knees, and champagne stains, she pretends, She’ll figure all of it out, every bit, yet, when the toothless morning bears its gums, glowing oven-red and damp, it'll hit, hard, so she gathers her milk-tulle and runs- so she becomes all bramble scratches all thorns, half-thing, wild-thing, she grows fur, grows paws what is a Woman if not beautiful? she sprouts yellow teeth, trips, she falls to all fours, What is a bride if not yours?