The vows went off.
They really burned it down—those old folks. They really
moved at the fan’s-edge shadow of their feet to god knows what
they felt that rhythm was. The girl herself was quiet, sweet. The bones
sagged like blown wheels in a broth of tripe
and the foils round the almonds came undone. One by one
all fell together lightly
like reeds in a wind-blown lake
like reeds in a wind-blown lake.
Jesse Littlejohn lives in Los Angeles. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Columbia Poetry Review, DIAGRAM, Mid-American Review, and elsewhere.