I have magazine images in a black book,
of brides
and cakes
and a mad hatter wedding.
Orange has become a pattern. I follow it,
on to the pavement laid
over a four-tier that I chose.
And has it come to be?
Has this compact icing eaten
away a beautiful day?
I have hoarded slice after slice
from red weddings
and pink weddings
and green weddings, that I never want to attend.
I stuffed them under pillowcases,
in closets,
under my un-kept single bed,
meant to be pulled out on a day when
buttercream will whisper at me about
the way I should dance,
like I am in love,
like I know how to make four-tiers
come alive with
lilies and
lime.
I will pull the slices out
with white diamond
shoes, but by then, I am afraid,
my legs will not remember
how to move like they are in love.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 