A Wedding, One Sunday, At The End Of Summer Poem by Luis Chaves

At 11, as the first few guests arrive, the inaugural bottle of wine will be uncorked. (Over the course of the day, drinking's democratic arc will range anywhere from 2004's old vine varietals to box wine). 11 at night, back at your house, Monday altogether too close, and here we are, seriously wounded by alcohol's slow-moving bullet. Those of us who've yet to leave will now replay the first Sunday of March in a slideshow of our minds' own making: the sun in slow-motion, tracing a 180° line through the sky; brisket and bread multiplying; the pile of shoes in a mess by the front door; the image of someone with ½ their body inside the fridge, fumbling for more beer; a prodigious stew prepared with ingredients that may as well be from another galaxy faraway; a flashback to those vast and troubling seconds you were able to maintain unbroken eye contact with the dog; and the undeniable domino effect of being alive made real by our kids skinny-dipping in the pool.

Translation: Julia Guez & Samantha Zighelboim