Their Little Room

The bride’s joy is just-watered,

fern green—

When the mouth smiles,

the heart had better smile, too.

Scorpion, melon, boot.

The moon waning, the teapot spout.

Peach blossoms are the first sign of spring.

Wrapping and unwrapping, the bride pleads,

“I want to be a window, not a door.”

Everything begins with desire.

The groom walks in choreographed silence

through black water, diamonds, pine—

Their cupboard is full but soon empties.

Laura Juliet Wood divides her time between San Miguel de Allende, Mexico and Pensacola, Florida where she writes, teaches, and translates.  Her poems appear or are forthcoming in numerous journals, including The Los Angeles Review, The Atlanta Review and The Hollins Critic.  In March, 2012 she was named one of two finalists in AROHO’s Orlando Poetry prize. Conferences and workshops include Under the Volcano, Hedgebrook, San Miguel Poetry Week and Sewanee Writers' Conference. She is author of All Hands Lost, published in 2013 by Finishing Line Press.

 

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