Alex Skovron’s ‘Narcissus’

In the end, of course, he got married
to himself. A civil ceremony, nothing too glib, a friend
or two, a reporter from The Mirror, the odd flame
from the past, a waiter with icy water:
his watery parents, a little perplexed, looking around,
confused because no engagement had been announced.

The celebrant was vague, her words left an eerie
echo, she quickly left. Nobody spoke. At last, he escorted
himself into the Bridal Suite: nervous, a little beery,
he sat there blushing on the edge of a single bed.