Wedding Invitations
Your sister's wedding picture is here.
I was not there but I liked the way
your sister looks in white, and you
dressed up in red beside her, faces
forging like posing figures against
the snowy drifts. Your half-smile
mocking faces off set, something
your eyes see, past the boundaries
stretched out, lined in white, settled
by the edges of a 4x6 wedding photo.
I recall your uncle, an anthropologist
in Africa. The one that likes his men
tall, slim, and dark-skinned, the one
I've never seen but you told me all
about one day, not with shame or
disgust, but as if he were a joke, as
if he were the punchline of some long
and tedious ramble, beginning with
your mother. He was just the man
your family mentions in brevity
at the dinner table, eyes rolling and
lips pressing into matching smirks. I
wonder if your uncle ever got his
invite to the wedding. The letter
you did not send to him. Your face,
never wondering without words how
this man could ever branch so far
from the roots of your family's tree--
your folks remind me of small-time
slave holders.
I say this, not because they're cruel
but because whites who could only
afford a few slaves knew what they had
was special property. They clothed them,
fed them, and allowed them the warmth
of their homes as if their slaves were part
of the family. Your mother could cradle
me for hours, tell me how much she loved
me. Your father saw me, his little project,
now bold and grown and black and slowly
becoming yours--
Your mother told me how, in high school,
her older brother picketed blacks from
entering their school. How her parents saw
this as acceptable. She knew it was wrong
but these things were so natural, so every
day and somehow she knew, seeing me,
kissing you, that maybe she wanted that
strangeness to be blocked out too. Your
dad, his entire family open racists skewing,
and though his feelings changed and grew
in biblical understanding, there are times
when things slip his lips that raise eyebrows.
Their bluntness harsh and sharpened
forms of misguided slander. They could
not help their fear, no matter how many
times they wanted me over for dinner, the
time spent teaching me to cross-stitch or
plant seedlings, nothing when they thought
their precious, blue-eyed, pale skin son
would date a little black girl.
They say the small slave holders
loved the individual, but it was the race,
the black masses, they feared and loathed,
something strange and below them--
an oddity, a stirring conversation
piece. Not a human being. Not any more
acceptable than uncles out in Africa
pursuing black men in the Serengeti.
Though I know I was not there, in that
photograph or at your sister's wedding, I
know you saw me, eyes glazed with some
prophetic power, eyeing me
with that half-smirk, knowing that
I'd never get an invite even if you had
known me then. That I am another joke,
the kind that starts with something about
your mother, and how we'd never be
standing there together in the pulpit. All
the same, your uncle and I would sit
hovered up in the back corner, watching,
silently accepting you, loving you,
without ever needing your permission
or your invitation.
III.
Your sister's wedding picture is here.
I was not there but I liked the way
your sister looks in white, and you
dressed up in red beside her, faces
forging like posing figures against
the snowy drifts. Your half-smile
mocking faces off-set, something
your eyes see, gazing out past the
boundaries, like dimensions of us
stretched out, lined in white, settled
by the edges of a 4x6 wedding photo.
I recall your uncle, an anthropologist
in Africa. The one that likes his men
tall, slim, and dark-skinned, the one
I've never seen but you told me all
about one day, not with shame or
disgust, but as if he were a joke, as
if he were the punchline of some long
and tedious ramble, beginning with
your mother. He was just another
crazy family member. He was just
the man your family mentions briefly
at the dinner table, eyes rolling and
lips pressing into matching smirks. I
wonder if your crazy uncle ever got
an invite to the wedding. The letter
you did not send to him. Your face,
never wondering without words how
this man could ever branch so far
from the roots of your family's tree--
the same conservative, the same straight,
the same heterosexual, heavy tree
and for a black man no less--your folks
remind me of small-time slave holders.
I say this, not because they're cruel
but because whites who could only
afford a few slaves knew what they had
was special property. They clothed them,
fed them, and allowed them the warmth
of their homes as if their slaves were part
of the family. Your mother could cradle
me for hours, tell me how much she loved
me. Your father saw me, his little project
now bold and grown and black and slowly
becoming yours--and then I scared them.
They say that slaveholders intimate enough
loved the individual, the hard worker and
the family membr, but it was just the race--
the black masses they feared and loathed
altogether something strange and below
them, an oddity, a stirring conversation
piece, not a human being, not any more
acceptable than uncles out in Africa
pursuing black men in the Serengeti.
Though I know I was not there, in that
photograph or at your sister's wedding, I
know you saw me. I know you're watching,
eyes glazed with some prophecy, eyeing
me with that half-smirk and knowing that
I'd never get an invite even if you had
known me then.
II.
The pictures of your sister's wedding
are here, not because I was there
but because I like the way your sister looks
in white and you in red beside her,
posimg like forged figures against
the snowy drifts, half-smiling
whilke you look out at the boundaries
of our future, settled by the edges
of a __________ polaroid.
I remember your uncle doing antrhopology
in Africa, the one that likes his men tall, slim,
and dark-skinned, the one I've never
seen but you told me all about,
not with shame or disgust, but as if
he were a joke, as if he were the punchline
of some long and tedious ramble beginning
with your mother. He was just another
crazy family member and I wonder
if he ever got his invite
to the wedding.
I said nothing as you mentioned him,
watched your face wonderining without words
how he ever branched so far
from the same tree your parents leafed off--
the same conservative, the same
straight-laced, the same ______ tree.
Your parents remind me of slave owners
not for cruelty, not for owning others
but because I was told that whites
who could only afford a couple slaves
treated their property wellm, like family
and had come to see them fondly, and your mother
ccould cradle me and tell me she loved me
and your fathr saw me, the little orphan Annie
bold and grown and black and yours--
they say that slaveholders loved the individual
it was the race they feared, the black
mass they loathed that always left
their black auntie, their bronzed uncle, their me
a little below the bar.
I often wonder if you saw me
outside the edge of that picture frame.
I wonder if your family knew me then
if I would have gotten a wedding invitation too.
I.
Summer with Friends, 2010
I've found a place for last year's scrapbook.
Pressed between the dictionary and the history
book, complete with primary documents. I find
the way the scrapbook pages cry, as cellophane often does,
mocks each strained grin at birthday bonanzas and drunken
barbecues, each wail makes the album hard to open.
How long did the album sit on the coffee table?
Dust films the cover, mucking the black and white
lace pattern meant for wedding albums. I liked
the cover, not for matrimony, but for candid moments
of the time we dueled on the putt-putt course
with our golf clubs brandished like javelins.
Your sister's wedding picture is here.
I was not there, but I liked the way she looked
in white, and you in red. Your faces forge
each other in the snowy drifts. She smiles.
But you look off, not at the camera,
but into the fourth wall, staring down dimensions
into planes we promised we would never cross
or wring a ring, just lines that marked boundaries
implied by the edge of a polaroid.
I drag a finger into a thick line of dust
admiring the dull sheen of ignored plastic
before I slip it into place beside
the novel about our founding fathers.
Beside Merriam-Webster. In front
of a promise of another album that you and I
will not be in together. The perfect spot.
Tangible forget-me-nots, forgotten between
meaning and the pursuit of happiness--
what more can I, a young girl, want?
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