The brides are in the best shape
of their lives. They are in the shape

of a bride, which is to say they
are the irradiated shape

of arrival. It’s awe. It’s
awful. It’s youth, misshapen

into a thousand ships, launched
daily. Each brow shapelier

than the last. I tell them to gaze
chastely downwards. I shape

their memories of the day
but I cannot tell the shape

of their marriage. You talk too much,
Dana. Keep your images sharp.