Wedding Day

Wedding day—or day before it— But always someone else’s; Someone else’s tears, someone else’s smile. Three times a bridesmaid never a bride. Never a bridesmaid, never a bride. Sister’s getting married they said Only parents get married I think. I smile when I see my sister wearing a pretty dress. She always knew how to turn on charm Like a switch—or button—or both As if one I may have had younger, she stole Good looks like it was a process— That’s why I let her paint my nails, Probably some shade of red. After the second coat she smiled And said to run sink water over my nails while they’re still tacky she said It would help them dry. My big eyes understand all this And make serious what was meant as a practical joke. I go into the bathroom and turn on the cold spout. I’ll never forget the refreshing tingle I felt All the way through to the tender skin under my nails. This is important business— Looking good for a good sister. I hear her giggle in the other room As spiders crawl up my jeans with the hole in them. Bugs in my stomach. They’re laughing because they’re happy They’re happy now I’m gone out of their way. Bridesmaids don’t like flower girls because they were once young themselves, and never will be again. I realize I’m a victim— That running water over my nails isn’t an important Step in the process of beauty But a means to a cruel ends of getting me out Of sister’s way.