wedding day

She throws apple cores
and rotten peaches out into nothing,
out into nothing for the land to reclaim
and clamber over.
They fall occasionally
on the hood of a dusty old car,
a dusty old car that leaks oil like
the lies in the oceans.
The car once belonged to someone's father
and his father ages ago,
ages ago before they founded the towns
and paved the roads.
The father is gone now,
lost to the wilderness sowed by truth,
sowed by truth that's mocked
by reality.
The reality we live,
where we bring foreign soils,
foreign soils along which we
tread fermented smiles
that
More and more every day
they smell like a wedding day,
a wedding day that may never
come.