The Unspooling

The priest is talking about a cord of three strands,

but I’m focused on the one

looping out from my left cuff.

It’s a white, synthetic snake,

and the more I wind it around my thumb,

the more the shoulder of this suit

loses its shape, sagging toward the floor.

I gather the coil in my palm,

a tiny, lifeless worm of polyester,

while the bride promises forever

and my sleeve begins to unspool.