I’m dressing my bedknobs for a wedding,

their wood faces glazed over, so happy.

No chapel aisle, just carpet. Both

get a lace veil and rhinestone tiara, frilled

chiffon frock, a pearl bracelet that sinks

to the frame. In Mass every so often

the priest invites the couples who wed

that month to stand so we can raise up

our hands and palm a prayer for them,

one woman, one man. We clap when

they kiss. My bedknobs stand a full

length apart. Before Mass I swirl two fingers

in the fountain on the wall,

though you’re only supposed to take a drop

and cross it. My communion dress

was all wine once I was done with it.