A quick one responding to Robert Lee Brewer’s poetry prompt: to write one about marriage.

This is amended from the shaky first draft. I’m still not fully happy with it.

—

Marriage came for my grandmother
the penghulu’s daughter
at 13.
She is the only survivor now
everyday, she calls out to ghosts.

Marriage bumped into my mother
in America.
She took it back home but
It screamed until she ran.

She was 20,
and now I am 21.
Our family friend is further and further away.

I ignore it like high school girls ignored me
at recess.
I know it wants to breathe down my back,
but then I remember that marriage
is a person I choose not to speak to
who wants to crash my party

and so it’s forever parked by the mall
waiting for some guy to call with
directions
on how to find me.

—

*penghulu = village leader