“I do,” replies the bride, her fingers laced
beneath her circular bouquet. “I will,”
she promises with smooth perfected face
that shows to all but him her surgeon’s skill.

And he who had to have this vowing rite,
whose will is ever aimed at “will” and “do,”
in silent hymn of secrecy, requites
the ghost of love to whom he wasn’t true.

The cleric blesses, and enchants the ears
of no one but himself, affecting voice.
He bids us pray for two past fifty years.
He calls us glad, but how can we rejoice
at two afraid of loneliness and age
who found their futures on a parchment page?