I remember our flight with wedding rings on,
the steward from Philly who saw we were young
and just married. How you proudly said yes, we got
hitched, like no one had proven such valor.
I think of your glance in the Spanish cafe,
the glint on croissants like the shine of your face—
it scared me to be so important.
I fan out my legs on the empty queen bed,
acknowledge I know how it feels to be happy,
accepting the tax it has placed on my living,
its drag on the rest of my breath.
Laurie Barton lives in southern California and teaches writing to immigrants and refugees. Her poetry has appeared in juked, Word Riot, Lunch Ticket, and Jabberwock Review. She is a Best of the Net finalist and winner of the New Southerner Literary Prize in Poetry.