#67
The crane groom points the broken spear
At what many deem a virgin womb
In defense or bitter accusation?
Her gravid green imp wipes a tear.
Her gown was woven on a feather loom.
Not every wedding is an initiation
Or means the end to previous lovers.
The bride's searching hand hovers
Beneath the breast of her maid-in-waiting,
Who stares behind her at a painting
Of her princess half sheathed in stone
And wonders if they'll ever be alone
Again. The bride's raptor headdress
Devours the crane's bill when they kiss.