The Bridesmaids drape on furniture like
Botticelli’s tired women, waiting to pose—sad and
bored faces in their pastel blues—it’s the fourth
wedding this year, and one more morning glass of
champagne at the hair salon will simply kill them—
though it gives a sexy droopiness to their eyes—
eyes that water for the camera, twinkle for the
men, cry for the bride—another one gone to the
White Dress, matching appliances, wine glasses to
die for, and 7 beautifully photographed days in
Paris—but now on this auspicious day, they
celebrate, because they are almost sure this is
what they want, too.
—Previously published in Crack the Spine (Issue 63); reprinted here by
author’s permission
lives in Northampton, Massachusetts and teaches at Cambridge College. Her work has
appeared, or is forthcoming, in print and online journals, among them Monarch Review,
Pearl, Brink Magazine, Gemini Magazine, Into The Teeth of the Wind, Emerson Review,
and Hawai'i Pacific Review. She was a recipient of the Rosemary Thomas Poetry Prize.