Rosalie Morris
poetry
poetry
A Photograph of My Parents' Wedding
They are twenty-six years old. They sit
at the base of a huge oak,
each holding a glass of champagne.
His long hair is pulled back
into a ponytail. The sneakers on his feet
clash perfectly
with his cheap grey suit. A wide,
dumbfounded grin spans his unshaven face.
Her small feet are hidden
by the skirt of her white linen dress. She is laughing
and looking at her new husband. A few days ago
her father had told her
not to go through with
the wedding. She didn’t listen to him.
She is making a strange motion with her hand,
as if she is a fairy queen and the cigarette
between her fingers
is a magic wand.
My aunt and uncle, who make up
the entire guest list, sit on the grass nearby.
I suddenly wonder who was holding the camera.