Six years ago
young men in rented tuxes and girls
in diaphanous azure dresses
gathered on the lawn of the 1st Presbyterian Church
in Alpena, Michigan, and placed bets regarding how long our marriage would last,
six months, a year, or maybe two.
The general assumption was, we couldn’t possibly
make it any longer, you so dark and serious,
someone who, according to my father,
“could stand to have a little bit more fun,” and me
in those goddamned too-tight shoes,
half-wondering if an old boyfriend might storm
the doors, objecting.
Six years later, and now we know
that sometimes, the only reasonable thing to do
is to go to bed angry, so that in the early morning
glow we can laugh at our late-night selves.
We are our best, first
thing in the day.
And yes, we married rather young,
but together we discovered
saganaki, North Carolina, the
works of Michael Chabon, South African red wines,
barbecue, Sonny Landreth and a million different ways
I love you.