The rented polyester feels like grit

The rented polyester feels like grit

against the back of my knees and thighs.

I watch my cousin try to make it fit—

this life, this cake, this look in her eyes.

She laughs too hard at the plastic knife

struggling through the sugar and the tiers.

It’s a heavy start to a quiet life

built on a foundation of polite fears.

In the center, a swan of frozen cloud

is weeping onto the table's spread.

The room is warm and far too loud,

melting the wings and the bowed head.

It’s a puddle now by the dinner roll,

a slow, cold leak that nobody sees,

a silent loss of the sculpture's soul

while we toast to forever on our knees.