Union

fantasy about the one you can't have, but shouldn't be with anyway

I keep thinking about marriage
to a man who looks like Max Von Sydow.
or at least, is Max Von Sydow.
But then my heels take hold
and I see my fingers there--
reminding me that I’ve been 
in the same place 
for as long as the mileage
between here and Terrytown.
This is where I picture the wedding--
my hair done up like I've forgotten
what it means to just lie there
watching fingers pull the sheets;
nails glossed and lips holding
the lips of Max Von Sydow.
Then I feel the pang
in the jelly of my spine
or in the quivering of my eyelid.
I realize the man is older than
in the films fifty years ago,
his face more marked, hair thinning,
losing its orange,
the color I want all days to be
when I'm there watching 
the cake ooze over the pan.