I love the story of the famous feminist
who decided to get married finally
after years of expressed contempt for it,
for what she had called the Declaration of Dependence
and “the sanctioned endorsement of
the testosterone conspiracy.”
But here she was, filling in that blank
on the certificate, her name in ink like blood
and she feeling a little dizzy after all the swerves
in that momentous signature.
Some people said it was a breach of revolutionary trust
but I liked the sight of her
walking her guy under the corny arch of flowers,
wearing her white, unbleached cotton
non-corporate-exploitation-third world wedding dress
-past the pew of rape counselors and libertarians,
the lesbian separatists no-so
crying to see their friend so ordinary.
There are five different equally valid reaons
she would not like my
saying she is a better man than me,
what else do we mean by brave? -
having all your life tried to prove the opposite
and then one day to simply say
like everybody else.
Let me be folded back
into the tribe
like a stalk of grain
into the sheave;
like a word into the book.”
And the old convention of the wedding night -
all that frizzy grey hair
and laughter in the dark.