A charcoal grill, a keg on ice,
before a few friends 
who try to dress nice,
Brother O pronounces: “Husband and wife."  
Couples by the hundred he's bonded for life 
or some brief stretch 
in back yards, city parks, under birches.
Never in churches.
These are joyous affairs with a simple touch.
"For people," he says, "who can't afford much."
His one request, it’s not too awful, 
you must come to his kitchen 
for a breakfast of waffles.
Then the ceremony he performs for free. 
He says: For love.

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 hug too tight, make ribald jokes.
They embarrass you utterly.
 
They paint flowers on your face 
and weave sunshine in your hair.

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.