Chana Bloch

The Kiss

There was a ghost at our wedding, 			 
the caterer's son, 
who drowned that day.	
Like every bride I was dressed
in hope so sharp 
it tore open
my tight-sewn fear.

You kissed me under the wedding canopy,
a kiss that lasted a few beats longer
than the usual,  					 
and we all laughed.

We were promising: the future
would be like the present,   
even better, maybe.				 
Then your heel came down
on the glass. 

We poured champagne 
and opened the doors to the garden 
and danced 
a little drunk, all of us,  

as the caterer made the first cut,  
one firm stroke, then
dipped his knifeblade 
in the water.