They are married under a tree
in something resembling sunshine.
At the back some locals look on, catch
consonants and pauses in the foreign vows.
A woman leans on her son’s pushchair—
he watches with open eyes, lifeless,
cheeks like two hot slaps and limp strings
wrapped twice around his neck.
She filters out with the strange muttered
promises into the square after it’s done
and pushes him round on flecks of bird shit
till the next couple flutters in, more human
conjurings, more imaginary fires—
was it under a tree with the father of her son—
skin on skin, she remembers wet dirt
on her back, something resembling sunlight
in her mouth. Below them, the uncollected city
is leaching into the bay through perforated sacks,
the filth of broken promises is invisible from
where the new pair are standing, under a tree,
with the family and friends that could make it
and a woman with a pushchair looking on.