2010 poem-a-day #69

For Dee and Jo

There is always a bride's room
at the wedding site.
Church, synagogue,
reception hall, courthouse
or meadow,
there is some sheltered
place for women to gather
and prepare.

Behind its walls
is a flurry of fabric
and advice, fingers
and last reminders,
bobby pins and warnings.

You won't find me there.

But when you asked
for my help preparing
your final poem
for your next
great performance,
I hopped up on your
hotel-room bed
like a four year old
invited to the wedding prep -
a glimpse of
beauty under construction.

You handed me your draft.
It was as if you'd washed your hair
and handed me the scissors.
You said, "This needs to be cut,
and I trust you."
I thought I was your student.
The four year old is never asked
her opinion on the flowers;
I thought I was there
to watch and learn,
absorb skills to be used
at some later date,
but you pushed me
with the impatience
of an anxious bride,
until I began to edit.

We did it together.
After the first three stanzas,
I stopped asking if you were sure,
climbed into the poem
and settled myself,
thought, for the first time,
that this is as much my craft
as yours.

And when I handed it back,
all I saw was blunted scratch-outs
and arrows, but you looked at it
and nodded like you were sure
you'd done the right thing.

When you took the stage,
I mouthed some of the words,
remembering their adolescence
in your hotel room,
watched you from the first row,
feeling like I was made
of honor.