The Wedding Room
They shut down the lights to demonstrate darkness. I put my hand before my face and all I know are gobs and globes of black. This is the Wedding Room. I know that two feet away is a slick stalagmite, the groom, thick as a tree trunk and gold. His stalactite bride stretches her spine above him. Splats of small water drip from her tongue to his eyes. My hand swipes the dark near my hip where your hand always waits, but you have moved in this thick blackness. I make my lips and tongue form slowly and silently over the word flowstone, flowstone, the shiny glaze of lime that smoothes itself across these stones so cold and deep in the earth. Like us, the pair is only split by a few feet of thin space. But it will take thousands of years for them to touch.
Shanan Ballamís poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Indiana Review, Tar River Poetry, Spoon River Poetry Review, Cream City Review, and Calyx.