And Do You
by Belinda Roddie
There was a wedding I officiated
at the local park, where the pond lay
stagnant, but the breeze was warm
and the poppies grew in golden tufts
like lions' crowns
on a kingdom of green.
The two people I married wore
tailored black suits and red ties,
though their boutonnieres sported
completely different flowers:
a yellow rose and a violet for
the ease of Summer's journey,
its chariot gliding across a horizon,
trimmed with the emperor's braid.
The words I spoke
were not my own
but theirs instead.
I recited poetry once kept
in books tucked under beds. I drank
the vows in like champagne before
the fathers could even give their toasts.
Behind spectacles, I saw the sun's descent.