—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.
San Clemente
