THE WITNESSES

Throughout the wedding service,

from her seat in the third pew,

the groom’s grandmother held

the right hand of her husband, in part to prevent it

from exploring her thigh.

From behind the microphone, an uninspired

voice tried to breathe life

into stern advice for the newly-weds,

written by a fiery

first-century celibate.

Walking out afterwards

into the heat, the blinding glare of summer,

the grandmother’s eyes found the eyes

of a much-married man, drawn into himself

at the love-feast, unsure

if he himself could commit such a rash act

yet again. She winked at him, said:

“I do find things like these get easier

as you get older.”—meaning

marriage, meaning

the perilous leap into the arms

of another, requiring

some skill and much luck, but mostly

a love of broken things,

of imperfection. Then her own husband’s face

slowly softened and relaxed, and he began to feel

the earth beneath him again, crushed grass

under his feet in spite of his shoes;

and a slight breeze came out of nowhere

to ruffle his clothes; to lift his dampened spirits

again and again, as they all walked on emboldened

into the beautiful, wicked world.

 - Jacques Coetzee