Allen Jih and Adam Vines

She boomeranged us twice:
in Idaho, she lost the queen
of spades while flipping cards

from the balcony. The pool
empty, the lawn unruly,
the motel at night was wire

unwound and stripped, looped, kinked
and unconnected, all
for swipes and switches, spanks

and sparks. We thought of red
when green lights tagged each other
down 31st, the blips 

running in succession, a path
to excommunication
or remuneration. Hell,

is there a difference?
The boss herself was lost
to lemons and gin, rust-

brown eyeshadow almost
at her brows, the fracture point
at which she became a costume

for Halloween. The bards
with iambs plodding from
the corners of their masks

reversed the game and flew
their pigeons round and round
the table, the strings and wires

a tangled coif of black
and gray with Sister Sara’s
unfurled and wizened hair. 

The second time, she dumped
our suitcase of everything
into a river awash

with onions and porcelain dolls
and whatever else the cook
would dump into the wharf,

looking to the fishermen
scrubbing their hands with salt
and trimming cheeks from cod.