By Joseph Landi

I.

You glow,
veiled, dress
like crusted snow
before traffic
has its way.

II.

The minister,
fighting hiccups,
asks: Do you take
as your awfully
wedded wife . . . ?

III.

Carving a grin
on his prime-rib face,
your Dad, unembarrassed,
flees into the wake
of tables, raising glasses,
celebrating
his disencumbrance.

IV.

Your Mom sits
unknowingly
next to his mistress—
her friend of forty
years. They chat
in matching dresses:
one pink, one green.

V.

My steak
never arrives.
I go hungry
immediately.

VI.

The band covers hits:
All My Life,
Beds Are Burning.

VII.

Silver and crystal
clink like railroad
switches. Kissing
becomes a burden.

VIII.

Your family argues
over the table photo.
Some are missing,
some already dead.

IX.

The cake fork’s full,
the cream capsizing.
I’m offering everything.
You’re laughing.

X.

The hall empties. Gift
boxes tilt like ruins.

XI.

In the lot,
my mother touches
my face like a blind
woman before I rejoin
you.

XII.

Cleaver.

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Joseph Landi is a medical writer living in New York City. His poems have appeared in North American Review, The Southern Review, South Carolina Review, Notre Dame Review, Midwest Quarterly, Louisville Review, and other journals. His work is featured in the textbook Elements of Creative Writing.