the procession

under a gilt dome & faces forward, unendingly

gray. aunties in their finest silks dance

around her feet, steer her toward

the bride. i hate to admit i am part of this

crowd, marveling at the girth of her legs,

thinking: if just one elephant charged

we’d call it stampede. not that she or i

wish death on anyone. the groom

descends. & she has seen fellow bulls—

their tusks chipping like bark or shorn at the base.

she knows some things are not meant to be

taken. i know what will happen to the promises

we girls make. we say we’ll never leave

the herd, but the ceremony will end with a party

where they flaunt their dates while i smoke

a cigarette where the elephant once stood. for now

we loosen our grip on each other’s hands, clap

wildly, our bangles chiming against

the rhythm, singing along with our broken tongues,

squinting to see the bride through all of this glare,

all of this gold.