On My Imaginary Wedding Day

On my imaginary wedding day
the sponge cake won’t collapse when my brother bumps it dancing.
I’ll wear orange shoes with slick soles that spin on a thin dime,
and I will spin and spin and spin.

On my imaginary wedding day and all up to it
I will dream of warrior poets.
I will wear cuffs of woven gold above my elbows,
I’ll have my fingers hennaed and my shoulder blades tattooed.

We’ll pitch a silk tent in a bubble garden on a rocky shore
and the Atlantic will put away her gray green winter tides
to deck herself in turquoise blue, an imaginary color.

I’ll rub noses with an imaginary puppy,
a great dane child with paws like saucepans and harlequin spots
named Chase.

I’ll have dancing in the evening with fireflies and floating lamps.
My grandfathers will be there, and Nan,
and they will all dance the tango,
kicking up old bones.

My father won’t step on my feet when we waltz,
and he’ll say I’ve found a good imaginary man.

There’ll be lobster and calla lilies
and big round orange loud daisies.
On the day I’ll take deep bubble breaths
and be dizzy on bubble garden air.

On my imaginary wedding day
my girlfriends will all wear orange ball gowns
and there will be a child-sized man telling fairy tales to their children
while we dance into the dawn.

The night will echo with the pop pop pop
of soda water bubbles and champagne,
and all the kissing will be perfect,
on my imaginary wedding day.