Just at sunset, the photographer arranges bridesmaids by height in a semicircle, a mirage of white teeth, burgundy velvet, envy, a soon-to-be in-law fanning elbow veil tulle in the back, her manicured fingers delicate, kind, protracted, empty – even

she thought it corny, the day he ringed her hand, too big a diamond the result
of his UPS third shifts; then the suggestion
with her brother (newly-engaged) of a double wedding, a concept she could only imagine per television, Marcia and Jan’s shenanigans

in The Brady Girls Get Married – one father
leading daughters down the aisle. She agreed to a photo booth and a whiskey cart, tiramisu over smashed wedding cake moments, to be the spotlight, his sightline, worlds fusing, colliding like the Brady girls

fighting over freshly upholstered tradition; only no xylophone background music to lighten the mood, no equilibrium restored before the credits roll, just uninvited guests, cardigan-wrapped as they carry wine glasses to the back

porch, toasting the sallowing air.