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Emilie
Beth Lindemann Wedding
Announcement Under
a buffet of cole slaw, beeftips, and
mashed potatoes, We’ll
exchange vows to
live in a mobile
home. The
Hochzeitsbitter* saw you in your polar
bear pajama pants. The
entire village approves. They
are only waiting to sit in your armchair and
matching ottoman, for buttered
haddock and chicken cordon bleu. *In
the 19th century, the Hochzeitsbitter
was a man who went from house to house to announce a wedding. He wore a “high hat which was decorated with colored ribbons and much
gold paper.”—Pomeranian Customs. A
Ghazal for the Bride with Post-Wedding Blues Some brides
feel disappointed after their big day. Try to keep up with friends, establish
a work-out routine with your hubby, ---Bridal
Guide The
wedding is over, the bride may now begin her
spinning. Bring
out the bacon, the frying pans, and soiled sheets. The
wedding is over, the bride may have her gown
professionally cleaned. May
all your nights involve Sudoku puzzles. The
wedding is over, the bride can roll up clean underwear and ball socks
together to create onions for his steak. The
wedding is over, the bride may now take down her
knot.com profile. And
retreat to cellars for heads of lettuce and shriveled grapes. The
wedding is over, the bride can stop dieting, and let
her skin go pale. Piece
together rye bread, sauer kraut, and smoked turkey
with swiss. The
wedding is over, the bride can unveil her
sweatpants. She
can trace long snakes of stretch marks to spell out “boredom” and
“loneliness.” The
wedding is over, the bride can cut off her hair and
paint her fingernails purple. Tell
the groom to strip off his cummerbund so she can catch her clippings and
drippings. The
wedding is over, the bride can climb out of her papasan
chair And
rollerblade down hills and into a deep valley. Keep
the Mystery ---Bridal Guide Dr. Cassel
says she’s found that men prefer a
bit of mystery about their wives Sew
something sweet into the lining of your uterus, perhaps. Or
practice reading handwritten letters you
write to yourself in the dark of your living room when he is
golfing with his buddies or sleeping. Some men dream of sneaking
up to their wives as
they tremble on red
mohair sofas, sleeping alone in the land of a shape-shifting uterus. Sometimes
a husband will stand there, chanting the letters “oooh” and “eeeeh” and “in the
bedroom.” I
recommend fluttering
your eyelids in
albumen. What
happens when another woman flings him her uterus? When
he finds you mouthing other names and sliding magnetic letters on your shared refrigerator,
spelling out calls for midwives to massage you until your legs
are a wide V with room enough for secret babies to
burst an imaginary hymen? You
should have continued breathing softly and sleeping, humming lines from his
earlier love letters he’s since
forgotten. You could have summoned wives from other planets to protect the
sanctity of your uterus. Women from Saturn tease their
men, forgoing the ceremony to jump
over a broom, they
retreat stealthily and seductively to separate spaces, sleeping soundlessly, without ever knowing
the feel of each other’s uteruses. They
breathe water, methane, and ammonia, etching letters on abdomens and thighs, backlit
by pink bulbs in
a spacious bathroom. Entire families have
whispered lives while you were sleeping-- Cucumbers
keeping your
pupils from other men. You
wouldn’t want to bake casseroles
to be their wives. Dr.
Cassel reclines on gilded
benches in urban settings; men wonder
which of the bold letters spell
the touches that make her uterus into
a woman entwining
fingers with their wives’ pale hands
seated upright in rigid living rooms. She
declines eye contact, hiding behind polarized sunglasses as if sleeping. Arrange
to meet your husband in a sparsely decorated public restroom; lean against
the urinal and tell him nothing. Whisper, wives. Float
off to a secret planet
while he gropes for raised Braille letters. Emilie
Beth Lindemann’s chapbook, Dear Minimum Wage Employee, You Are Priceless is forthcoming from
dancing girl press. |
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