“Life if glorious, but it is also wretched. It is both. Gloriousness and wretchedness need each other … They go together.”   — Pema Chodron

A long married couple, resigned to one another’s opposing nature,
Glory and Wretch sway on a dance floor.
Groomsmen puff cigars underneath a half moon.
Bridesmaids massage their cheeks, sore from smiling, with no end to their smiling in sight.
It is almost October. Louis Armstrong Oh-yeahs.
Glory and Wretch finish their dance
At the wedding reception of a very young couple.
Glory captivates as she steps off the floor,
Slides her milky palm into Wretch’s rope-rough hand.
He wanted to go home before the ceremony began;
He’s seen this all before, a common reception hall
Where separate wedding parties bleed their amplifications through thin room dividers;
He curses the whole rotten show, damned if you do, or don’t   Anyway you look at it
It’s a burial, and then oblivion. The bride barely notices him,
Wonders the secret to Glory’s radiant glow …
She’s come to life for this occasion, kisses bride and groom,
Leaves a lip print wafting of spice cake.
Wretch aggressively pumps the groom’s hand.
Arm in arm, the half-century Mr. and Mrs. step into their own midnight –
She replays the moments of heart-felt emotion.
He regrets zeroes scrawled onto their gift check.
Their silence grows spongy in blue glow of a Trail Blazer.
His breath shoots out of his nostrils like an instigated bull.
Her whale eye superimposes onto the window
Against a swell of intermittent city stars …

butter pecan, maple glaze, sweet, but not too sweet, apple cake, honey pour, cup of light brown sugar leveled with a butter knife, blend of dough,
no such thing as too many chocolate chocolate chips, fresh maple syrup,
pancake drip, a baker’s dozen, oatmeal raisin, fresh hot doughnuts,
cinnamon rolls with thick white icing, cupcakes from a box mix,
Duncan Hines, Betty Crocker, frosting left to warm on the counter,
spoonfuls of peanut, almond, cashew butter, whipped cream,
strawberry shortcake, pumpkin muffins, Halloween candy
dibs on everything chocolate or sour, warm apple pie
a la mode, crepes drizzled with Nutella and powdered sugar,
Cadbury eggs, cheese strudel, hot, sugared coffee, ice cream scoops
on a sugar cone, Moose Tracks, Peanut Butter Chocolate Swirl,
sundaes topped with caramel, a cherry on top, yellow cake,
fudge icing, strawberry rhubarb jam spread
onto warm toast, bread pudding, Hershey Kiss pressed
into the warm peanut butter cookie, Godiva on my tongue …

I’ve never been without
the sweetness
my tooth calls for.
A month now,
craving confections,
life’s only delivery method
for what makes
the coming and going
worthwhile.
To refuse
feels like
I’m missing out on
high stakes good times.
I’ve always had my eye on
what’s around the corner:
dessert sailing
its saccharine aromas,
a substitute nurturer
who tosses me up high
and then lets me fall to the floor
a lot like love.