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"the wedding feast at east haven" by w v sutra



it was in the elks lodge at east haven Connecticut

that the wedding guest saw his failure clear its

bitter taste mingling with weak cocaine


the band was playing bar band stuff

all the drunken women had been scooped

and he was very drunk again himself


he had driven down from boston in his salt rotted car

down 95 through pawtucket and providence his last

dollars in his pocket

the weather winter

the day gray and drawing in


he was shown to a couch in a basement

where he might crash

other arrangements being beyond the reach of poverty

he had brought no present but himself

nor any wish of well

how the invitation found him was

an answer looking for a question


there was no bachelor party

but all who wished could drink as a mob

at the holiday inn

the groom was there with his bride to be

a group was rounded up to go to toads place

the wedding guest got into a random car

tagging along for dear life


certain chance revelers used him kindly

for the sake of the glad occasion and

made him welcome in their fashion

stealing such moments from the surge of life as

circumstance allowed and these were few enough

for the fact remained he was an outsider

and left to his devices short of cash

next day at the wedding mass

the celebrant spoke of the good wine

from the wedding feast at cana

that wine is jesus christ he said

the wedding guest prayed for an open bar

badly needing intervention


as the wedding folk dispersed toward the elks

he saw the priest smoking in the parking lot

feeling in need of further blessing he said

that was a good sermon father

thanks are ye off to the party then

watch out for that open bar


he wanted

to dance in the open air like a peasant with his codpiece bulging to

come home from the hunt in the snow with blood on his clothes to

share bean soup with his fellow villagers at the feast to feed on

joy like the bright gods


he stood in one spot and then another all night

speaking to no one

drinking as much as he could

while the going was good


as he froze in his old car that night

he slipped into his fantasy world

and dreamed again that he was a hunter

stalking through the winter woods

his quarry had fled bearing many wounds

but the blood on the dinted snow was his own




w v sutra was born in Africa and raised in Southeast Asia and the Middle East, borne hither and thither on the surging tides of cold war and soft power. He has been at various times a rock musician, a public health professional, and an educator. He began writing poetry during the Covid-19 lockdown. His work can be found in various online journals and at wvsutra.com . He lives and works on a horse farm on the shoulders of the Holston Mountains in East Tennessee.

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