by Jeff Pearson

I’m afraid the bride might

sink like her baby blanket of a veil

into Bloomington lake. 

Cradled in a cove of the Wasatch mountains

she performs the elementary backstroke.

I’d rather her in a swimming pool,

the depth of the lake unknown.  To

the delight of the wedding party who

stare up at the maw of the peaks

and the reflection rounded into a giant bear trap,

the bride used a rope swing to get

out near the deep part.  Should they follow

into the water like an aquatic procession

swinging one at a time off the rope over the rocks

or wallow in the lilies on the bank

singing, “When ya gonna get mar-ried

mar-ried, mar-ried, when ya gonna get

mar-ried sweet little buffalo boy?” The

bride yells, “The only thing real in me

is the clouds and the sky, and they mean


photo by Jody Plant