it's too late, now

it's too late, now

there is a thick layer of red
paint, all over the parlor floor;
the kerosene lamp spins a flaming yellow
trail across the homemade curtains

      wait! that's not paint!
      those drapes are on fire!
      my god, what has happened?

i had gotten half way down
the aisle; i dreamt i felt
your hand on my arm,
your father's glowing eyes, on my back

      the organ is droning
      flat, funeral music; and yes, that is
      blood on my tux

i have been stabbed, at the altar
three times, and always weep surprised tears
across the bible, unable to fit
betrayal into my holy book,

      unwilling to stop my "i do"
      from crawling-out, alone
      in the stained-glass morning.