by: Joseph Millar
Why don't you just say one of your prayers,
she sighs on the way to the airport
passing through the Virginia hills,
something hidden and dazed in her look
like Dylan's corrosive voice
smoldering out of the radio.
When we stop to stretch
in a grove of dark pines
she looks like she's trying
to remember something
standing beside the fender
and bending the wing mirror over:
I look okay in this gray light, she says
no one can see my crow's feet.
I can't decide if she's flirting with me
or trying to pick a fight.
What if I tell her I'm not afraid
of her riddles and midnight rages?
What if I hand her these scrawny violets
and just say, Get back in the car?
It is the eve of my wedding anniversary. Twenty-three years tomorrow, I married the love of my life. The years haven't all been smooth and easy. We've had our struggles, for sure. But the struggles have made our marriage stronger.
So, I am celebrating my beautiful wife today, and all the gifts she has brought into my life. All the laughter and tears. Our kids. Christmases and birthdays. Trick-or-treats and valentines. Pecan pies and cookies.
She is the poetry in Saint Marty's life.
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