Wedding Plans

She presides, precarious,
on a paper throne of invitations,
thank you notes and polite replies
regretfully declining attendance.

Her harried subjects buzz about,
frantic to carry out
the Queen Bee's proclamations,
as she waves an ungracious scepter
over cringing shoulders.

Her high-heeled shoes,
the ones the doctor
warned against wearing
in order to preserve her arches,
track red pockmarks across
the backs of feelings
she has stepped on.

Mother scurries behind,
kicking the trodden
while they're down,
grasping towards her daughter's
illumination, trying to turn it
into her spotlight to highlight
her value, her achievement,
her newly purple-streaked hair.

The bride marches on,
the halo of importance
too bright to see beyond
its own glow, and
unknowing, she carries
the disease of disdain,
infecting every life she touches.