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Dorianne Laux
We didn't have one, unless you count Paris,
20 years later, after we'd almost given up on the idea.
We'd imagined one, long nights beneath
jelly fish washed up on the shore, their glittering insides
visible, still pulsing through flesh made of glass,
but it never happened. We had to work through
our vacations, refinance the house, find someone
with each storm. We wanted to make up
for the wedding, or lack of one, the granite
courthouse steps, the small room with a desk,
the flimsy document stamped with a cheap gold seal.
Even then we meant to have a party on the deck,
grape cider in plastic cups, our friends on the lawn
calling you the Big Kahuna, me Mrs. Dynamite,
me calling you my Sweet Dragon, you calling me
your little Red Corvette. Instead, time found a way
to demand each minute, until one night,
after you'd gotten a small windfall in the mail,
you turned to me and said, I'm going to take you to Paris,
muting the clicker when I said "What?"
and saying it again. Then we were there,
its 81 stories of staircases we couldn't possibly climb,
its 73 thousand tons of puddled iron, you
kissing you beneath the pathway of arched trees,
our voices echoing against the six million skulls
embedded inside the stone catacombs, me
saying, I guess you weren't kidding, you
taking my hand in the rain.
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