A Marriage in the Dolomites

unwrapping them gingerly,

parting the crust with a fork,

tasting dew, must, salt,

raising an eyebrow,

or we let chianti talk for us,

rolling it in the glass,

staring—it was dark and shiny

as the pupil, and stared back—

or we undressed each other;

we took long walks hand in hand

in the vineyards, the pastures,

resenting each other bitterly

for our happiness that excluded us

as surely as the world did,

mountain after mountain.