Farm Wedding

You visit the farm where the horses
wear sun-blocking blankets folded
like gimp masks over their eyes.
It’s for their benefit, you remind
yourself, but they rub

their faces in the ground. For ethical
consumption, the farmers shave
the shoulder meat from living lambs
then repatch: little lambs
in bandages limping. That night

at the wedding, your gown’s aflame
and somebody’s grandfather falls
on the dance floor and doesn’t rise.
A bridesmaid screams.
You scuttle from approaching

headlights, heels in hand and board
the hotel shuttle. When the driver
halts, items topple from your open
purse. You think you’re alone
but you’re not. Fear the imminent: loss

of keys, broken zipper, lack
of witness. Alighted from the bus
you look back but it’s already
gone. Instead you catch the shadow
of earth coating the moon, leaving only

a hangnail. Your heart sinks each descent.

Claire Denson’s work appears or is forthcoming in Massachusetts Review, Booth, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, and Hobart, among others. She reads for The Adroit Journal and holds a BA from University of Michigan and an MFA from UNCG, where she served on the editorial staff for The Greensboro Review. You can find her at clairedenson.com.