QUESTIONS I WOULD ASK IF
WE EVER GET MARRIED
Should I preserve a clear image of
myself in my own mind? Should the
image have a strong outline? Are you
doing this? Is it important to retain a
memory of what you’ve forgiven for
forgiveness to work? Is it important
to know who and what your parents
loved, or is it enough that they
existed? How important is it to like
your lover’s family? Why do your
friends never mention your ex?
Would a full veil wreck my hair? Will
the wedding be in Jamaica? Will it be
windy? What kind of rice will people
throw? Will it stick in the veil? Will
turtles come up the beach to watch
us? Will dolphins frolic and leap for
the photos? Is it true that your friends
like me better than they like you?
Have I imagined this? Does having a
titanium plate in your face make you
have weird dreams? Why doesn’t
your father drink? Why doe your
brother drink so much? Can self-
knowledge ever be achieved without
knowing your parents? Do orphans
have it easier? If I forget what you
did, does that mean you are more, or
less likely to do it again? Why did it
take you three years to tell your sister
about me? Just asking. Will I trust
you to drive with children in the car?
Will the sides of my face age
When you said you’d like to see me at two-thirty, I said yes.
When you named the place, I thought you’d look stunning
in all that scenery. I said: yes, yes.
There are two ways here – valley up or peak down.
I’m checking for you in both directions, over my shoulder,
using selfies, so as not to appear obvious.
There’s nobody else here. Except an older couple down to the left,
each holding Ziplock bags containing perfect fondue bread cubes.
Probably rye bread – just the way you like it.
It’s already two-forty-five and if I leave, I might meet you
on the way up and then I’d have to turn around. Are you on the way?
In a distant cable car, zipped up in Parker and mittens?
Yes, I am wearing the wrong clothes. Yes, I didn’t want those boots
or any form of cagoul. You’d think four inches of stiletto would hold
a pirouette in the ice, but what they have here is not what I call ice.
Also, you didn’t say glacier ice would be dirty – pitted and rutted, as if
an army of jeeps passed this way just yesterday. Or trucks full of GIs,
like in the Dirty Dozen, which I’ve seen seven times. Thanks to my father.
Since you’re running late, I’ll probably sit on this boulder and watch
my own breath. I might ask the older couple to give me a photogenic
square of bread. I could hold it between my lips until you get here.