(Based on a photograph of Diane Arbus' A flower girl at a wedding, Conn. 1964)
      “Freaks were born with their trauma” —Diane Arbus

I know they will divorce.
It is written in my eyes.
They will empty their hearts
like petals tossed on the floor.
The church will be solemn
as my stare, blaming the camera.
The mist trails behind me.
The garland in my hair is twisted
as knots in their stomach.
It gathers behind everything.
I hate this standing & waiting
when I knew it will be done
before it can begin.
I wear a white rabbit fur coat to keep warm
in the twinge of cooling air.
The lady snaps my picture
like the man snaps his finger at his future wife.
He beckons:
Come here and join me like a good little woman.
I think that I should throw rocks at him.
I can tell that her heart is bruised
into the color of chicory.