what we had when everyone else
told us we were too young to marry
was nothing more than a small carry-on:
four spinning wheels for
simple maneuvering in and out of doors,
a handle that slid up and down with the
smooth ease of young love,
straps for easy carrying on the back
(thickly padded, covered in felt)

nothing like the heavy sets of mismatched
baggage, beaten from too many travels,
wheelless and torn, strapless and with
handles that break out blisters on palms,
identifiable only by their massive weight,
their inability to fit easily into anyone’s trunk,
that everyone else, now older,
carries with them into relationships.

what we had when everyone else
told us we were too young to marry
was nothing more than a small carry-on:
inside it we rolled up our
running socks, fuzzy pajamas,
pants for every season, swimsuits and gloves,
and packed ourselves a trip that would
far surpass the one that the people
around us told us not to take.