The First Season of Marriage

Spotlit by July,

   I'm nostalgic

 for the day I'm in,

  as if I'm starring

in a silent filmstrip

  meant to teach capability—

  running errands

in my geometric sundress

  pinned neatly above

my shadow,

turning

   the silver key in the lock

of the silver Jeep,

swinging

   in a half-hoop

onto the onramp—

   looking out

as a way of

  drawing in—

  You've got to let him be

angry awhile,

  my friend said,

handing me a prayer plant,

   salts for the bath,

   if you want

to make your marriage last—

on the highway

   men tend the streetlamps;

the white cups that hold them

   jack up evenly,

  until each man uncleaves

a milky face

  lifts a bulb big as a hubcap

  that catches sun and spills

fishscales

a diamond's jittered spray—

You've become so small,

   said another.

I am dimming

  along with you, now

how can we grow—

how long

   have I not noticed

these lamps along the road?

—their gentle necks

    bending over us

like a needle

    in time, diving

the dark cloth—