By horse, by canoe they come 
dressed in grass skirts and beaver pelt hats.
They bring amphorae of wine, 
barrels of ancient beer. 

They fight. Belch. Kiss both cheeks.
They paint flowers on your face 
and weave sunshine in your hair.
They hug too tightly, make ribald jokes.

They smoke sacred herbs. Chant, 
pound on drums, sing in lost language.
They puff music in hollowed bamboo,
dance in circles, juggle flaming torches.
They draw antelope on the walls of your cave. 

As dowry they bring generations of struggle, 
millenniums of sacrifice. They will come 
to your wedding whether you invite them or not. 

Wish them welcome. 

A few years ago I attended a backyard wedding, a humble affair, a small gathering because the bride’s parents and her entire family refused to attend. The groom was the wrong color, the wrong religion. He had worked for me briefly in construction until he realized he’d rather drive a truck. Bride and groom both had nothing in possessions—only love. When I looked into the defiant eyes of the bride taking her vows, I saw the spirits dancing. No way could her family boycott this wedding. You could sense them in the air. So I wrote this poem. First published in Sheila-Na-Gig