like Mary at Cana, the mother of the bride
has shrouded the wine to be served at the end;
the father deputized nephews to escort
their guests to the wedding tent, taut under rain,
beneath which the pastor has not failed their nuptials,
nor yet their candle set blaze to the trellis


but after, an aunt has to slip away still,
making her way stealth from tittering nieces,
hearing aids laid on the ground by her side
to lie on the hillside and search out the star;
the one burned in heaven her daughter made leaving
when she, gathered first, pierced her way into night


and, who’s to say, if there’s more love to find
than the arc a fifteen-year-old left in her wake.


(William B. Jones, 2009)


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