A purple dinosaur sings at my niece’s wedding

 by Lori Lasseter Hamilton

and a rose blooms in a warehouse.

A fresh breeze swoops into the warehouse’s open doorway,

swirls pink and red rose petals in a circle on concrete.

Skating across the floor, silky petals thin as paper dolls

dress in lacy gowns and stick their paper heads out

a limo’s moon roof, throw themselves to the sky

whose stars flash, diamonds in the moonlight.

I throw these petals at my niece’s wedding

as she and her groom hop in a convertible,

exit the building. Somewhere in a corner,

my sister high-fives the bride’s father

once the festivities are over.

She blossoms, her pale petals opening.

I see my sister forgiving

the man of betrayal

as bitter as winter

wind that wilts flowers.

From his downstairs home office,

the bride’s father emails girls

as my sister’s hands tuck my niece in

and a purple dinosaur sings,

“I love you, you love me, we’re a happy family”

but after the reception

my sister grasps the father’s hand with hers

as if to say congratulations,

we’ve pulled off our daughter’s wedding with no hitch

and from candlelit tables,

my mother gathers white roses

drinking water

from mason jars in twine

and my sister’s hand opens

like a just born rose bud,

petals opening to greet the world,

forgive its betrayal of her,

petals blooming

in spite of the concrete floor

rising up to meet her,

pummel her,

bruise her,

black and blue

her arms, hands, and fingers

lifting to the sky,

grasping flesh unfaithful,

rose blooming, forgiving

the concrete that crushed

its silky petals.

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