Marriage should be no surprise.
But give substance to the idea,
take it out into the sunlight,
watch it blink back at the brilliance,
smell it odors.
And still you will be caught
for a moment unable
to move or speak, startled
at the flesh of what you have imagined.
Look steady at the man
and say “Husband.”
With your forefinger
draw a line from his temple
to his pubis and say “Mine.”
Hold one of your hands before you
and say “His.” Place one hand
on your womb and wait.
Something in the back room
will stir, rise, shake itself
like a heavy beast and begin
a long slow dance.
You will recognize
the thick ripe air
and the rhythm
you have never heard.
Later, there will be nights
when you have to lie
motionless along the floorboards
to feel that faint thumping,
and nights when its pounding
invites your spine to a similar grace.
From “Three Poems”
Swift Kick Press, Special Edition, Buffalo NY, 1981
This poem began as a letter I wrote to my friend and former lover, the man who introduced me to my groom, explaining what it was like to make the decision to marry. I thought then and still think that marriage is a kind of beast or a song: A thing that is neither one person nor the other, but a creation that both contribute to—a creation that can exist only if both are present, and can thrive only if both are fully present. Put that way, it sounds a lot like a child, doesn’t it? Beast, child, or song, the marriage has to be fed and cared for. It can nurture in return, can charm you or move you to dance. But like any living thing, it can go too silent and too still.
Copyright © Rhonda Riley