We probably got married

just this past June. My veil was lifted

by the wind, and we said blessings:

mekudeshet, mekudeshet, mekudeshet.

My mother cried, and my father

was probably not there, because he died 

after years in a hospital.

Your mother also cried, while your father stood

to the side of the congregation,

quietly, probably not revealing too much

on his face, as always.

I know you are scared to have children,

but we will probably have a child,

and you will carry this child around

in your arms, like your friend from high school carried

his little girl at the party we went to

over the weekend, as if she were a sparkly gift,

wrapped in a bright red corduroy dress.

This is what fatherhood can be,

I probably thought, at its best. I believe

you have it in you to deliver that kind of love.

And I will probably be faithful to you,

which is probably an inadequate faithfulness,

because I find it hard to resist attraction,

and I’m not sure I won’t give in

now and again. And you will probably

be faithful to me. I can picture us in forty years,

a breeze over our bodies at night.

A miracle in and of itself, to be breathing

the same air, until one day, we probably won’t.