about our wedding: four years engaged in a wait 
for the right politics, for the funds, for my unease 

to soften like my fifty-something body. 
He shares his ideas with his sisters. 

I keep mine in a phone note: 
if I’ll die before the day — 

disco tuxedos with flared pants 
— tolerance as a mask, its tension

in when the facade will break — 
no polka — no baked beans. 

Like tonight's grooms, his mother wants 
to invite everyone: hillbillies, city folk,

fourth tier cousins and queers around the bar 
where names don’t matter. 

It's not an obligation, just a relief 
to know I still have choices 

I still can’t believe possible 
even as I’m here, ready 

for my second bourbon, 
my lover's hand 

pulling me to 
the dance floor.