A Wedding

By James Tate

She was in terrible pain the whole day,

as she had been for months: a slipped disc,

and there is nothing more painful. She

herself was a nurse’s aide, also a poet

just beginning to make a name for her

nom de plume. As with most things in life,

it happened when she was changing channels

on her television. The lucky man, on the other

hand, was smiling for the first time

in his life, and it was fake. He was

an aspiring philosopher of dubious potential,

very serious, but somehow lacking in

essential depth. He could have been

an adequate undertaker. It was not the first

time for either of them. It was a civil

service, with no music, few flowers.

Still, there was a slow and erratic tide

of champagne—corks shot clear into the trees.

And flashcubes, instant photos, some blurred

and some too revealing, cake slices that aren’t

what they were meant to be. The bride slept

through much of it, and never did we figure out

who was on whose team. I think the groom

meant it in the end when he said, “We never

thought anyone would come.” We were not the first

to arrive, nor the last to leave. Who knows,

it may all turn out for the best. And who

really cares about such special days, they

are not what we live for.

Copyright © 1991 by James Tate.

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