3 Champagnes Deep at a Wedding Reception
Kentucky fit like a thrift store sweater,
itchy against my skin, pooling at the wrists.
My eyes always searching for the fire exit,
the soil too dry for my tender seeds.
But I spent that first week with you
lapping up sweet lake air,
amazed at how different Minnesota tasted.
Your mom gave me a necklace,
a golden ring encircling a tree,
and I felt my roots grasp the ground,
growing toward you.
Your dad placed a drunken hand
on my shoulder and said he would only drink
Kentucky bourbon and that you and I
should move to Uptown.
I found a place curved into your collarbone
that I knew would fit smooth against my cheek.
I bought it without trying it on.
I open your bathroom cabinet and find
my mascara right where
I left it.
In a rush down the stairs,
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