The stranger came to the wedding
with the bride’s face.
Nobody noticed.
Her mother was busy
counting blessings.
Her father was busy
counting chairs.
The groom was busy
becoming a husband
in front of witnesses.
The stranger sat through the rituals,
accepted the food, the beverages,
clapped when everyone else did.
Then she climbed the staircase.
The bride followed.
Upstairs:
a bedroom,
a mirror,
a wardrobe
full of things the bride
hadn't worn in years.
The stranger took out
a red dress;
“too revealing,”
her mother had said.
A photograph;
her father had torn it
after finding her kissing
someone he didn't approve of.
A notebook;
her poems,
before people began asking
what they were about.
She put everything back.
“Who invited you?”
the bride asked, curious.
The stranger looked
toward the staircase,
“Everyone.”
She walked downstairs
wearing the bride’s face.
The bride stayed behind.
She looked into the mirror.
For the first time that day,
she didn't recognise herself.
Downstairs,
her new husband
was kissing a stranger,
as the room erupted into rehearsed applause.
No comments:
Post a Comment