Bob Hicok

A Wedding Night

by Bob Hicok

A groom goes out with a pillow to where the sheep
are white bushes across the hill. Dirty white

bushes across the hill and places his pillow
at the top, just before the top, a few inches

from the top for his head so he can see, almost, yes,
he can see the curve of the earth, out

where there is only water. But there is a ship
on the only water, on the curve of water

to his left and right, as the dirty white bushes
move, as the ship moves to the east

along the curve, and he thinks of how his pillow
will smell in his bed, beside his bride,

of grass and seasalt and the curve of the earth
and coming home, she will breathe all of these

when she leans over him, drapes his face
with the night of her hair, the curve of her

falling to all sides, from a center, from a moon,
from an asking, from a giving, from now on.


Bob Hicok, from Iron Horse Literary Review