Mark Yakich, p.1


Why I couldn’t see my bride ever again I had no idea.
To him who marries and marries and marries—
gael, giddy, gall—bear it out! With borrowed resolve,
I sent my twinkling troops back into the cemetery.
This time however, the man with the violin case wasn’t talking.
I was embarrassed that all my guests had brought such charming gifts
and I’d forgotten the sugar at the store. Had I time to dig out
a new sugar lane to the neighbor’s before the grand event?
No. I’d have to compromise once more. Scraped the icing off
the hard tack and onto the angel food cake, and announced
“finger food,” as if I were a pig who knows he’s dinner.
Ten beatings later, or maybe more, my servants screamed
bloody murder! It was about time. I didn’t know how long
any of us were going to keep this up. A frail layer of ice
maintains itself only so long before completely cracking
under the weight of heavy breath. People were getting restless,
so I made a peace offering. “A round of tears for everybody,
on me!” But nobody drinks anymore. The head chef was
especially perplexed at the state of events, since he’d gotten up
extra early that morning. I know, because it was slightly after
I noticed that my Anna Livia had run away. And there again was
the cake to remind me of the great escape from the bedroom
ledge. The work of thieves posing as firefighters. My slit
satchel fully emptied of peas. I threw open all the windows
and screamed to the trees, Nest or fly! Nest or fly!