by Chelsea B. DesAutels
Featured Art: “Panel No. 1” (Leaning on a Parapet) by Georges Seurat
The night before, we’d eaten fried walleye
with tartar sauce in a big white tent and passed
the quaich filled with Irish whiskey to our loved ones
who sipped and said blessings. There was music.
You played guitar. I went to bed early, happy.
You joined me later, happy. The next morning,
we woke to snow and gray skies. All morning long,
I cried and heaved and my mother and bridesmaids
whispered, afraid I was having my doubts. I wasn’t.
I was rupturing—a violent fissure between
my wanting to be good at loving and wanting
everything, like a river island suddenly shorn
from the bank and flooded by ice melt. Over my dress,
I wore a fur stole that I’d found two summers earlier
in a roadside antique store. We’d been road-tripping
through the northwoods, you behind the wheel,
me gazing out the window at Lake Superior, a body
displaced by thousands of shipwrecks. Read More