There was a ghost at our wedding,
the caterer's son,
who drowned that day.
Like every bride I was dressed
in hope so sharp
it tore open
my tight-sewn fear.
You kissed me under the wedding canopy,
a kiss that lasted a few beats longer
than the usual,
and we all laughed.
We were promising: the future
would be like the present,
even better, maybe.
Then your heel came down
on the glass.
We poured champagne
and opened the doors to the garden
and danced
a little drunk, all of us,
as the caterer made the first cut,
one firm stroke, then
dipped his knifeblade
in the water.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem