I’d read in The Press that you’d married her,
Lacy dress white, but her heart beating dark thru
Blueblood veins, vessels to carry pedigree,
You’ll never understand. “Who are his people, anyway?”

Grandfather will ask, and Mother will change
The subject, tell her Daddy about the color of your eyes,
Crystal blue like the waters of the bay, and your skin, fair,
Unmarred, and your hands rubbed raw from work but gentle

Enough to play Chopin, just as Mama would’ve loved to hear.
And when it’s time, you’ll dance with her, but your heart sings
My name–I still hear it in the violet haze of twilight here
Where we walked together before you wrapped your future tight,

Rural white papers explicating the importance of proper unions.

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