I’m no longer aware of anything but the car radio
that plays a slow, Mexican tune we danced to,
in olden days.

The bride turns to say something to the crowd,
something light,
something that will lift above the people around her,
and reach me through this car window.

You kissed me during a storm once,
just after our wedding,
as we walked through some neighborhood.
There was the smell of smoke and fire
from Christmas fireplaces.

As our car moves past,
something in the wind lifts the bride’s hair.

You say something you haven’t said in years,
but I don’t hear it.
Did you see that, I say.

When we are out of sight
the wedding will continue.
The bride will wave as she enters
the honeymoon car.

You are the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.
We will drive until it is dark.
We haven’t held hands like this in a very long time.