Wedding Night

Angel's Flight, Vol. 3.1 (1978)

David Trinidad

Night is an overweight woman
who strips to old songs.
I've seen her shove the sun behind
	galaxies in crowded rooms, and at
	parties snap her lacy bra.
	She slung out the North Star
like a nipple on a glittered tit.
	Voyagers saw it.

In her parlor
we dared to touch.
Night is a pushy girl,
	she was jealous of this match.
	Comets shot like eight balls
	across her table of green felt.
She tilted her head and laughed
	and laughed and laughed.

She peeled gold rings
off of planets
instead of fingers.  Or cigars.  Day had worn
	the sky like a ski jacket.  Night fell
	loosely on her large legs
	like a pair of faded jeans.
We should have stayed a little longer
	and listened to her Polish jokes.

But it was safe
in the motel room.
The moon was a comma at the end of a good line,
	you turned and pulled me like a slip
	of paper and blasted your pen like a rocket ship
	through my nebulous words.
It was the Fourth of July
	and all the stars were dotdotdots.

We should
have listened
to the gypsy on the pier
	when she pushed my palm away
	and said, "You'll be more than a lover,
	much much more."
Plastic bracelets crashed toward her elbows
	like sharp waves warning us to stop.

Night turned cold.
She pouted and was too proud
to play another game.  Now I'm hung up
	in the bathroom and you're on the road
	being blinded by the headlights
	of a speeding car.
Our lips chap and sprout milky sores.
	Our faces show their age.

Street lamps burst
and spin halos
like horseshoes and clovers in a slot machine.
	While night drops her G string
	like a pink eyelid
	or a pun
and coughs from the corner of a cabaret:
	"I've won, I've won."

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