The Maid of Honor Gives a Toast

Bedecked, you make your way to the altar.  You break champagne flutes and saucers on a long 
detour.  When you arrive your husband has gone missing.  The road forks and now we polish forks 
for the towering desserts.  Your bangs cover your eyes.  You twist lace handkerchiefs into handcuffs.  
I probably should tell you:  I'm always the one who holds the knife, the one who carves the cake.  
Down the aisle, women still cling to their bouquets.  The starched petticoats.  Your cold blue lips.