We stepped over the yellow Do-Not-Enter line now engaged past the drainage rut, into a field of flowers like a suspended horizon, you could see separate to be married rows of red, orange, pink and white we stood in red, hips touching on the look out for the flower police you didn't want to disobey I in my linen dress and straw hat, you in stem-green pants nervous, self consciousness sat on the ditch's edge, posed, not unlike the flowers the photographer wanted my neck softer, I curled my chin pretending to be a bride she told you to hold my hand, to show the gold and diamond band this is corny, you were tired, hate posing and said kiss: our profiles cocked, lips not touching you, stiff as a tree, said into my cheek not enchanted by the flowers "You bought into it; commercialized it" our engagement photos idyllic its like an investment in their fine, black pages edged in gold at least 200 wedding guests we hold hands in flower fields just beyond the line