Look
It’s not a green bench in the children’s room
It’s a crocodile
It’s not a crocodile
It’s the future:
here’s the slow shift of his eyes
here’s the dreadful snap of his jaws
But where are the children?
It’s not the children’s room
It’s the childhood’s room
Here’s you standing in it
with your small dress and shut mouth
and your whole crocodile ahead of you.
The dress The white dress has a long row of buttons, from the open neck to the rim almost touching the floor. And my time is scarce. I button quickly, sometimes the anxious fingers push a button into the wrong hole and after three or four buttons the worried eyes notice it and I unbutton it and start again. In the back I hear the bride who is before me amusing the guests in the microphone, to the sound of laughter and applause. I didn’t know this too was required, and my head is hollow of words in the buttoning race. They are already handing me the microphone, warm from her touch, and I haven’t finished yet. I look imploringly at the groom (judging by the age, the tie, the posture, it’s him) that looks back at me with empty eyes. I realize that in this wedding I’m alone. I