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

separate anymore,

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,

but really,

what else do we mean by brave? -

having all your life tried to prove the opposite

and then one day to simply say

“I am

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.