My Grandparents Were Married 100 Years Ago Poem by T.R. James Bray

I can see your eyes
behind this veil.
But I cannot feel your gaze.
I can hear your words, but your breath
has been suffocated.
The veil sways, against your sound
but the warmth is trapped, away.
The man sold us that veil, at the market
when he heard of our impending nuptials, he said it was
the only way to marry, unite,
and be one, today.
my grandparents had a stove they used
to heat the house
casting light and feeling throughout.
Stoves are not allowed anymore,
too many fires.
Legislated dead, a social contract,
now we watch flames, projected
an attempt to recreate,
to mimic, the original.
Adjusted authenticity.
I know now
you and I are the keepers of the truth.
The terminal ones
who curled on the hearth, as children,
and remember its warmth.
Pulled back the veil,
drank gaze.
Without knowledge of arrangement
ignorant of curation,
Just us
and a need
to free trapped breath.