That was some wedding up in Tahoe. Remember the church stuffed with brooding icons, the moon bluing the mountains?

At the reception, my ashtray leaked almonds. Gifts wrapped in silver and gold. A widow sent them a conch shell packed in Styrofoam peanuts—when the Best Man blew it, a C note flew out.

Jeannette? A crucified goddess. A femme fatale fallen. But you'd never know it the way that she waltzed. Everyone played along in the Grand Teton Ballroom. Remember the sea of green balloons? The hors d'oeuvres featured real crab meat.

I recall the Groom—victorious Caliban, in full dress. Bet he really tasted the springs back at Caesars. Heard he found an old yearbook, fingered a phone book, called Jeannette up. He's Western Regional Big Shot for some big German copier. He told his Best Man he wants her pushing a stroller, washing trousers, breast-feeding his young.

Some day, when a mood overtakes her, Jeannette will remember that shell. She'll press it to her ear and cry when the world spells out her name, in waves.

I don't know why, but whenever I write prose poems I tend to write about relationships!