The Unfastened Guest

The groom’s father is wrestling a rose,

stabbing at his lapel with a silver pin.

I watch him struggle with the heavy clothes,

trying to let the celebration in.

My own hands are bare and light on the cloth,

no band of gold to anchor the bone.

I feel like a stray or a dusty moth

hovering near a garden not my own.

On the white linen, someone dropped a spare,

a sharp little safety pin, open and bright.

It’s the only thing I recognize there,

holding itself together in the light.