Outside the wedding chapel I search the trees
for happy birds, trying not to wish or worry.
She is so young, and they are so eager
to make dolls out of women, but not a prayer

can save their virgin teeth on dinner tables
and holidays. I am a funeral
for flight, scattering ashes in the dead leaves.
I try not to wonder if I will

have a bird someday. The pastor says
“it is not good for the man to be
alone,” and I almost believe him. In
the park, sometimes, the birds are beautiful.

I watch a yellow puffy-coat waddle-giggle,
and his father scampers close behind. The wind
blows sharply across my cheeks. despite the
gnawing, I’ll sow crumbs on the ground

and shove pigeons in my pockets,
chasing the rest when the coat gets too heavy.
My friend Caitlin died last summer. There are
so many useless words in my palms, I think

twenty-five. twenty-five. twenty
-five, and feel sick about all the living
I might do. “So God was bound
to happen then?” the pigeon asks, and I think

his eyes, my hands. We are so small,
peering down the aisle. The bride is
there waiting, her white dress buttoned-up
the back. I am chewing on my wafer still.
Maybe there’s food in the ashes.

Something sweet like
almond-chocolate-brittle.
It’ll break your tooth.