His eyes were like a mood ring,
waxing, waning, love, lust
anticipatory of consuming the forbidden fruit
made clean through this process of sanctification—
the feast of Honeymoon.
She buried her soul,
so the windows to it were shuttered.
“Do you, Christi, take this man…,”
the minister spoke,
and in those few seconds of time eternal,
she saw herself returning to the lover
the man before her had saved her from,
the man with whom she would live
a carefree, childfree life,
and sift through the grains of sand
that made up the world.
Then she beheld the unintended consequences—
the children she would never know,
the life she would never live,
and this man with another,
who would always wonder
about the one who got away;
who be waiting in his own way,
not even knowing he was passing time
with the one who had stayed.
“…till death do you part?” she heard,
and she murmured yes unsurely
as her husband parted the gauzelike veil before
those two-way mirrors that saw everything—
like a surgeon revealing his patient’s new identity.
She would become this botanist’s amaranth
in the greenhouse he had built for her—
she would flourish in the love that nourished,
and become a new creation.