You called from a rice paddy somewhere, stuck in those socks
stained with the same oily ditch-water which only recently
floated the full moon Armstrong stepped onto. When you came
home, I washed your underwear, became contentious.
Our kitchen was the DMZ, the master bedroom VCR vibrated
in an X-rated kiss. When the TV actors came for Thanksgiving,
we cut a Tarot deck in the den. Our friends surrounded us
as we pushed the gravy boat back and forth across the linen.
The year we married, we walked barefoot on the saturated lawn.
Strangers slept in the front room. But you never forgot
how the sky lit up, how pandemonium fell
like wedding rice, dimpled the surface of the punchbowl.
You said it was always oily water, always a long distance call.
(photo by Leah Lynn)