At the altar my throat almost breaks
with joy. Joy
like the junebug in the kitchen
which exploded into flight
from inside the toaster last summer. Joy
like the lurch of recognition when,
after reaching behind the refrigerator,
my hand came back coated
in a gray lace of unborn moth eggs.
I catch my voice with my hands. I understand:
The trick is to greet mortality with familiarity.
The trick is to plan the party in advance.