Registry

The invitation came on cardstock thick,

felt like a debt I couldn't pay.

My college roommate—three years since we'd talked—

and suddenly: a wedding on the way.

I looked up the toaster on the list,

stainless steel and brand new.

The price more than my rent. I checked

the number twice to make sure it was true.

The cardstock sits here like a bill,

a final notice I can't ignore.

I could decline, could make excuses,

could say I can't afford the time off work.

But declining a wedding means admitting

I can't celebrate other people's luck anymore.

So I'll go. I'll wear something close.

I'll smile and practice what I'll deplore—

envy, resentment, the simple math

of knowing I'll never be on the registry side

of this equation. I'll sit at a table

and hate myself for hating your pride.