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.
 

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