"The Marriage"

She is twirling, all pink tulle and sparkles. 
She doesn’t even like purple—that’s boy stuff.
She won’t wear shoes with laces.

The way her hands trace cabinets and dishwasher knobs is magic,
As she pirouettes through the tiny kitchen.
The room smells spicy like food cooking and cheap scented candles.
Mom is sitting on the cupboard,
Legs pivoting up and down on creaky knees.
She is playing an ancient drawbridge.

The classical station is playing some song everybody knows.
And she dips and stretches catlike on the floor.
She seems so young to stay on beat.

She leaps up and grabs Mom’s legs and hangs,
Her own legs flailing with the fast runs of music.
And she asks Mom to marry her,
In the way she’s heard princes do on her cartoon movies.
Mom always says yes .

A few more minutes of a pas de deux,
And she tells mom she’s going to marry a lady someday.
A real lady, with pearl earrings and a fuchsia scarf.

Mom smiles as she whirls off like petals from dyed daisies,
Tenderly holding soft imaginary hands.
Mom knows that at least today,
she’ll be back to marry her again.