Tiffany Troy: “Wedding-bound Million-Dollar Dream”

Wedding-bound Million-Dollar Dream


While people around me are getting married and having kids,
I am chained to the bottom of the sea.
“A start,” they say. What fools they are, like you.
I’ll get married before you, that’s for sure. I’ll go: “Excuse me,

Stranger, won’t you marry me?” (I have a bet
I need to win.) Just as your daddy and mommy
won’t let you marry your rich childhood friend a caste below you,
Master, as Aeneas did, dreams of resuscitating a lost dynasty,

which is difficult because his “busted” deposition
sounds like “bastard.” I was going to write back
“Bastard is not part of Master’s lexicon,” award-winning
Bullshit Artist that I am. Bounced between Master who says if only 

he was me, and School filled with 
pricks who teach me Shame, my World shimmers 
with lunacy. Come morning, Master will fill the bathtub with water
waking me up alongside my million-dollar dreams, bubbling.



When I hear the water thunder, I do not give thanks. 
I curse pink-puckered dawn, who mocks us for still not knowing
the Rules of the Game at the back 
of our hands. They call us “incompetent,”

“not duly diligent,” and “inadequate.” As the water
runs through me, I struggle to meet and confer
with one jerk after the other as you wait
for “please understand” to KO tenderly.

When the phoenix rises, we will no longer be pariah
pinned to the wall for our lousy copy-and-pasted work.
The troubadours will not sing of Master texting 
the Defendants’ counsel about “shaking the mango tree.”

At nine p.m., unbillably, I play you weird animal music 
before marching you to the 7 train
as you joke how each case is a million-dollar case
and I how this is my first walk outside of the Office.


I swear—soon—we’ll leave
evil ladies tugging at men’s shirts behind
garbage bags in treeless streets
and go to your home in India, where the summer is even hotter

than the hellfire of New York.
It’ll only take a case or two under the largess of judges who ought to be on meds
for me to sit in the front row as your VIP,  
all beaming in giving my Emma Woodhouse speech.

Then we will live happily ever after. That is, once troubles
worse than Achilles'
can be fought by lesser mercenaries,
Master will not dump me

for his trainloads of girlfriends
prettier and younger than I am,
leaving me alone with 
my million-dollar dreams.

About the Author: Tiffany Troy is an interviewer and reviewer. Her interviews and reviews are published/ forthcoming from The Adroit Journal, The Cortland Review, The Los Angeles Review, EcoTheo Review, and Tupelo Quarterly, where she serves as an associate editor.

Image Credit: Chase Dimock “Lemur Food” (2021)

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