I’m walking around the outer roped-off
circle of Stonehenge, considering whether
the dress I’ve ordered for your wedding is
after all exactly what you want me to wear:
it’s aqua, several shades lighter than
the teal blue you said, with beads on bodice
and sleeves. If I were a pre-Druid woman,
entering this dread eclipse between the henge
stones, the color of my dress would hide me
in the sky. I would be beady sky, leading
you. You would look like swallowed light,
and all around us the silence would be filled
with distance, and sheep. My shoes, dyed
to match my dress, would punch holes of sky
in the grass. In these ancient rituals, all
existence wants to face the sun! The way
not to disappear, dear one, is to start talking.
Once we entered the inner horseshoe of stones,
I would tell you everything about the past. By
the time the final blows of sun landed
on the bluestones, I would have you caught up,
at last. We would look at each other
in elaborate detail, laugh like temple bells.