I’m never getting married,
I proudly remind people at any opportunity:
on first dates, during commercial breaks,
waiting for prime rib at a wedding reception.

Never, I unnecessarily repeat, my italicized emphasis
cutting in line, elbowing their unrelated thoughts
out of the way.
They’d been wondering about the origins of the
Electric Slide
about the purpose of charger plates,
about the cool pink center of perfect medium rare

‘I don’t need a gift registry!
I have kitchen shit I don’t use,
an abandoned George Foreman, an unemployed blender,’
is the next thing I say when I’m sober.

'I don’t want to make promises
that I’m incapable of keeping,’
is the next thing I say when I’m not.

In both cases, I force feed the listener from
a buffet of congealed views on
fidelity and commitment,
claiming that I can't—or don't—understand any of it.
All that you can eat, more than you can stomach.

Friends and semi-strangers and those unfortunate
enough to be seated beside me nod silently,
lips tight, eyes racing across my shoulders
toward the closest conversational exit

A band being paid an hourly rate
plays a Jackson Browne song.

I’m thirty-four, old enough to realize that there’s a thin line
between independence and loneliness,
a line thinner than the card stock
on the flimsiest Save the Dates, the cheapest invitations.

I’m not sure I believe in my words any more
than I believe in the vows I’ll never say
but I’ve let my insistence define me
much longer than it should’ve.
An aging child star, forced to repeat her catch phrase
at fan club conventions.

But rather than reflect or, even worse
reevaluate,
I’ve reprised my one-hit, added a new verse,
dropped a mix-tape remix.

'Penguins are the only other mammals who
even PRETEND
to be monogamous,’ I say in all caps,
quickly hiding several essential facts
under the parquet dance floor.

I think it’s penguins, but it could be
hedgehogs or the brightly colored birds
painted on Caribbean postcard stamps
or some other animal you
can’t picture having sex.

I’m thirty-four and it’s still two hours until
my fifth glass of this couple’s
signature cocktail 
will lead to a year of bad decisions
with the maid-of-honor’s stepfather.

This could be more Jackson Browne
or a Van Morrison B-side.
The lead singer is unconvincing when he
coughs out either man’s words,
an unreliable narrator even when he
says good night.

I’m twelve, asthmatic and wheezing
in the thick air of summer camp dusk,
watching cabins pair off to make promises
they’ll forget when their parents show up.

I cut a neat X across my palm that night,
even though no one asked me to.
I stand in the gathering dark, feeling the blood
slide down my fingers before dripping
silently to the dirt.

• Tags
• poem
• poetry
• things that might be crap