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by Debbi Brody I pivot in front of the mirror –not polished tin, real glass– swirl around in my good skirt, until it lays askew over my ready hips, as if I were a gypsy girl instead of a milk maid, hat off, pulse pounding. In the garden across from this fine guest house, my olive-skinned wood cutter paces like a mute somnambulist, waits for me to pull closed the shutters, his sign to join me. Lovely, best wedding gift, one night on a goose down mattress, no bristly flat thatch, feathers piled high.
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