Brides of the Afternoon

White brides, dark grooms 
lustrous silks on 
an orange afternoon, 
scuffing through dry leaves 
crackling in flower beds. 
Rice-paper moon far 
away over the Oquirrhs 
Yards of satin spilling 
out of those gray, gothic towers, 
stopping rush hour traffic 
at Main and North Temple. 
These brides of the afternoon 
trail long trains of white 
held aloft by little girls 
drafted for the occasion. 
Were these dresses of disallowed 
desire crafted by my friend 
Jeanette, who smokes a cloud, but 
fits these females with the emblems 
of their purity? Photographers 
trot along in their wake. 
For heaven’s sake, how can it 
start like this? The grooms 
see nothing of the loveliness. 
They stare across the intersection 
at the Don’t Walk sign where 
electric orange hands prevent 
their progress.

The first bride’s hair 
is like a bonfire. 
She wears puff satin 
sleeves as big as oars. 
What is in store for her? 
Hands at her thighs gather 
her gown, expose black 
shoes, white stockinged ankles.
Something burns in her green eyes.
What is it rankles her? Or is it
some banked passion, out of style,
incongruous, displayed in public.
The town receives its brides
abstractedly—they’re like a
filigree on commerce and cement.
As they drift by, men in orange
hardhats drill the streets, 
prepare a place for Brigham, who’s
been plucked from his pedestal
and placed in storage. 

Black is the color 
of the next bride’s hair. 
Her lips are creamy, wondrous.
Skin is ebony, dress is delicate.
The groom’s in black 
but white as stone— 
carved from the canyons 
of God’s astonished mind. 
Now the rabble are not blind to her.
They stare, aghast at contrast.
She smiles at them. 
Pedestrians pile up. 
The wedding party troops 
across the street.

Sometimes a groom picks 
up his bride and wades 
against the grain 
of traffic, 
headed for 
the fountained 
photographic gardens 
on the other side, 
There, beneath 
a phallic tower, 
they’ll squint into 
the glowering sun, 
Are they having 
fun yet? 

Behind the iron 
gates, between the 
pillars, forever 
families pose. 
Here on the granite 
steps, before the 
big bronze doors, 
they pack it in. 
Among the voyeurs 
in the street 
I watch the brides. 
In blazing white 
they’ll soon emerge 
into an orange afternoon.