every white wedding is exactly the same.
kitschy mason-jar centerpiece displays,
thirsty flowers in ornate vases,
lace-trimmed tablecloths and country-pop
songs blaring from the stereo.
welcome to cookie-cutter suburbia,
copy-and-pasted from half-a-hundred
Pinterest boards depicting
indistinguishable scenes
of smiles stretched paper-thin
on spray-tan painted faces.
my tongue is a skipping record,
regurgitating the same vapid
conversation ad nauseam,
stutter-stepping through
an indistinct refrain:
“how’s school going for you?”
“oh, really? an English degree?”
“and just what do you plan
to do with that, exactly?”
bourgeois blather follows flagrant patterns.
drunk uncles splutter racist rants
at this posh reception, but i’ve been told—
no matter what—don’t stir the ***.
avoid any and all discussion
of the current president’s
child concentration camps,
the war on immigrants,
or the escalating tensions
with Venezuela and Iran.
i am sick
to my stomach
of self-indulgence:
watered-down punch bowls, patriarchal
vows to god and government. “i do,”
an endless ******* feedback loop
droning tediously until my ears bleed.
sing the same hymns over acoustic guitars
while vocals peak in microphones.
reread 1 Corinthians 13:13, beg your deity
to bless the BBQ pork and beans.
dance along to the Cupid Shuffle
and be sure
to always follow the rules:
birth, youth,
college, marriage,
work, death.
consume.
