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Michael Shewmaker

BPR 49 | 2022

After the wedding,
I wake the way

we fell asleep—
in a cheap motel,

buzzing, your head
against my chest,

the TV lighting
the gaudy art

(a pastel lily
gilded with dew)

above our bed.
Since it’s Sunday

the televangelist
raises his hand—

the way you do
while dancing slow—

to pray for all
our sins. Bless him

and his bold tie
brighter than Easter.

Soon, we’ll rise
ourselves and shower

in the poor pressure.
I’ll help you towel

and braid your hair.
We’ll load the car

together. Driving
along the coast—

above the bluffs’ 
receding shadows,

the shaded waves’
seeming retreat—

I’ll recall the verse
he’s reading now.

Something about
a redundant sun—

a river ending
in an endless sea.

Something about
our vanities.