THE WEDDING PARTY

—for Brian & Nancy, 11/23/85

Late afternoon wedding.

The courtyard of Mission San Juan Capistrano

harbors no swallows--only bleak mud nests.

On the bare tree, the one white pigeon stirs the flock

and like grey leaves bursting into flight, they circle and bank

as guests enter the narrow timbered adobe chapel,

whitewashed walls lean heavily toward the sea,

dim green light broken into patterns by the windows of saints.

A white satin carpet is unrolled for Brian & Nancy.

Behind a flurry of veils, the kiss, the rings we can’t see.

The guitar strings whisper, the mariachi band readies itself.

And the final words of the padre, “In 50 years

I will come to bless you again. Look for a small white bird.

All this recorded on video; seafoam and dark shadows.

As the last chord fades, we leave the church

barely able to look at each other

but our white-knuckled fingers and damp palms

reassure us of our existence.

John mimics my left-handed sign-of-the-cross

The nuns said it was the sign of the devil.

Our car horns stir the pigeon flock

into another cloud of frenzied flight.

We run the red lights. Cars at weddings

and funerals have right-of-way.

At the San Clemente Beach Club

the wedding party reconvenes.

In this bastion of America, pinstripe suits

mingle with down jackets and nikes.

I imagine behind each face, a mask,

behind each palm tree, a dark stranger.

Each day John pins to his breast

the lapis heart I gave him.

In ritual there is comfort.

But this makes me uneasy.

Someone sings Danny Boy

& Brian’s mother cries

the same way my aunt does.

The storm front pushes down on the sea

until the horizon is swallowed.

We take armfuls of red carnations out into the night

& slide drunkenly between Brian & Nancy’s sheets

as if this were our honeymoon instead.

Dark petals stain the sheets & the rain comes down.

11/24/85
San Clemente

11/24—Hung over & headed for Mexico in a rented car

we try to outrun the rain

& the sudden weight of ourselves.

Today, at the age of 33,

I’m almost as old as Christ before he died.

John strings turquoise stones,

flecks of the sky around my neck

and says, “In 50 years I’ll be an old man,

will you want me then?”

I tell him “I have trouble

separating myself from childhood,

and the child within me asks,

”where will the small flocks of wild birds

hide themselves when it begins to rain?”

At Camp Pendelton John stops to take a piss

US govt. signs warn of arrest for stopping or loitering

& I imagine cops in the bushes

waiting for the weak-bladdered.

We pass ground zero.

Truncated towers, multi-armed monsters

march east across 101 from San Onofre.

I try on the sound. Onofre. Laguna.

La paloma, pigeon/dove es la verdad.

In Spanish there is no distinction between the two.

Open chord progressions of birds sit upon scored lines

leading from San Onofre to the heartland.

John says, “All across the country these reactors

are dormant bombs waiting for the fuse.

Huge red bells strung from power lines

labor silently in the wind.

11/24/85
San Clemente