So I tried to write a poem celebrating marriage. I actually wrote one last year, which I read at a friend's wedding. I wanted to write a new one though. Instead, I ended up with a sort of anti-epithalamium. It just worked out that way.
Not as Domestic as We Thought
Love sets down in a yellow place
a kitchen, Dutch cheese, a glass of beer.
It wipes the stove but leaves a trace
of grease and garlic-scented air.
The cat who settles on the dusty sill
the dog beside the bed
love lights there, or where it will
and wanders off instead.