The Day My Father Married Irene

The sun wilts the red and white dresses,
an arc of red, an arc of white,
matched to tuxedos,
Irene’s arc of bimbos
girdled around a swimming pool,
the island centerpiece, an ice sculpture
of three swans melting into an octopus.
I can’t hear a thing over my Uncle Fugue’s gag,
the hedge clippers next door. The band has
begun to set up. My bored little sister
empties her petals into the water.
My aunt waves at her.
My father lifts the veil
of his new wife, and I glance
toward my grandmother,
seriously proud, watching
her son tackle his new wife’s tonsils.
I fight fainting into the floating island—not
to mention this is being video taped.
Red rose petals dropped
onto the pavement—these heels
killing me, my first pair.
I don’t turn around,
but keep my eyes glued to
the tuxedo and the white veil
under the gazebo, still under the gazebo.

*Jill Holtz’s work has appeared in Shenandoah and Passages North. Currently, she resides in Tuscaloosa, Alabama.