The Young Bride Changes Her Mind

On stocking knees
At the side of your Mother’s bed
Attending to a trifling imperfection
In the hem of the dress
You spent nine months searching for

The available light
A photographer’s fantasy
Sliding in at you
From between net curtains

The soles of your upturned feet
Crease beneath ten denier
Breast and belly press to
Satin spread of the quilt

Your grandmother stitched
In the first year of marriage
The long evenings measured
By the needle’s prick

Waiting for a telegram
That never came
Your mother was conceived
On that piece of work

It is her you hear below
Laughing at the florist’s quip
High on delight
That everything that should happen
Is happening

Your father stabs the ribbon
Wound tight on his flower's stem
Bridesmaids gather the froth
Of their skirts to climb the stair

But for you there is one thing only
In this moment
The light, the laugh, the spread
Are not part of it
Only the infinitesimal flaw
In the hem of the dress
Too small to mend