Wedding Present

The bones on honeymoon scraping each other is what we think of,
the oil-less, fatless sauces and plates stacked like anger 
in his face, but not his body, or in her ricochet tongue, but not her face.

And the ferocity with which they must not be alone, as equal to 
the exquisitely wasted flesh their Stairmaster has seen 
and since matched, regret a plain and blameless ceiling.

Didn't we see her once uncriminal and loosely broadcasted ass, 
not resplendent! as mirrored in his stratified, iconic face unfolding,
his seismic attention to loaded dolls?

The ceremony now assaulted by false mariachi protrudes 
like his one hipbone plinking 
hers, a sound that bruises and weds them.

Forgiveness is the bare egg unbalanced: 
His family standing truly bland and bastioned.
His bony bride in her tiny, trudgey petal gown