Sterile
I throw my rice on you, small handfuls of
White wishes with husks rubbed off. Grains catch there
In your hair, a few, the ones that know love
And its meaninglessness. That’s what they share
With God, that clinging whiteness and a blank
Commitment to your curls and what’s under
Them. Wasted seeds won’t comprehend the frank
Black hair or my withheld, hidden wonder,
My bright devotion. You will shake your head,
Not nod, or maybe nothing quite that clear;
Perhaps you’ll bend to kiss the one you’ve wed
And rice and dreams will plummet down and sheer
The scene of any hope. White rice is dead.
You lift your bride away from me to bed.