Chivas Sandage wrote this poem and read it at last week’s Marriage Equality Rally in Hartford, Connecticut, which she helped organize.
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The clerk says you are not
my wife, says it is written
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so it is so. Because
it was written
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one place, we
cannot be written in another.
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The clerk would not
hand me the thin page
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that we pay her to hand others—
its black lines waiting
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for pairs to sign their names.
Love, the letters of ours
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might unravel across the pale
rows were we not
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you and not me.
The clerk’s fingers tremble
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as she dangles our marriage
application at her side,
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as if it’s just paper—
not our lives.
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She says it’s not her doing
but the doing of others
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who have written
that you are not my wife.
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Love, they have written
that our yellow house
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is not mine. That our child
is not yours. That our rings
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are not sacred talismans
we wear to our shared grave. Love,
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I left the marriage counter
and returned home joyful
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to find faint tracks of your work boots
across our kitchen floor—the path
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that returns you to me
at the end of each day.
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I will return to ask
for the page. Someday, we will return
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and the marriage clerk will do something
she does over and over every day—
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something she’s never done—
she will hand us that shaking page.
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Photo courtesy of Vivian Felten