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RACHEL JAMISON WEBSTER
The First Season of Marriage
Spotlit by July,
I'm nostalgic
for the day I'm in,
as if I'm starring
in a silent filmstrip
meant to teach capability—
running errands
in my geometric sundress
pinned neatly above
my shadow,
turning
the silver key in the lock
of the silver Jeep,
swinging
in a half-hoop
onto the onramp—
looking out
as a way of
drawing in—
You've got to let him be
angry awhile,
my friend said,
handing me a prayer plant,
salts for the bath,
if you want
to make your marriage last—
on the highway
men tend the streetlamps;
the white cups that hold them
jack up evenly,
until each man uncleaves
a milky face
lifts a bulb big as a hubcap
that catches sun and spills
fishscales
a diamond's jittered spray—
You've become so small,
said another.
I am dimming
along with you, now
how can we grow—
how long
have I not noticed
these lamps along the road?
—their gentle necks
bending over us
like a needle
in time, diving
the dark cloth— 
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