At a crossroads you stand,
just like the runaway brides
before you, their heads thrust
back, embraced by sun. All
around you, runaway brides
ooze out of walls like ghosts
are said to do, out of doorways
like an army of queens arriving
for the coronation’s after-party.
They gaze out windows, reborn
Rapunzels with shorn hair,
dressed in eyelet dresses and
white fishnet like burgeoning
popstars. So you stand, these
runaway brides at your back,
looking out at a sky awash with
sunset and littered with gulls
diving into its streaks, their
underbellies radiating a peculiar
light. Below, the sea revels in
its own colour, the contours of
your waiting groom’s face
emerging, lit as if a valuable portrait.
You peel back your veil and it
crackles like old wallpaper, drifts
to meet the terrifying beauty
below. Leaning dangerously,
intent on savouring the sight,
you seize pieces of your own
reflection swirling with his in
all that colour until it’s just you
gazing back. Until it’s just you
smiling, mingling with sea foam,
rescuing yourself.

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Adrienne Weiss is the author of Awful Gestures (Insomniac Press, 2001) and There Are No Solid Gold Dancers Anymore (Nightwood Editions, 2014). Her work has appeared in ARC Poetry, Canadian Literature, Taddle Creek, MockingHeart Review, and Room Magazine. She lives in Toronto, Canada.