︎︎︎ Jenna Littlejohn

︎ JUNE 3, 2022

You resist blind eyes and trash and study slides, quick escapes in the

light. If you actually took the time, severed the false fist, slid off the wet Patek and swallowed its small science, could you then

take the time.

It occurs to you that the noon hour is best spent stuffed and slick: razor-thin meat and lemon tart by your new no hand. How pretend is the melancholic trend of your noon? How close to the sidewalk is that homeless idea? Can you kiss someone without a home? Or one who goes without treats to be photographed before the blind eye of God? You couldn’t kiss em.

Hell, you couldn’t even call out your own name at this point.

You resist God and bend at the beck of your friends, the ones you will kiss, cheek for cheek as if they too don’t do all the silly fucking things you do.

She says from above: I will love you, selfish and wry, ignorant and dined, until it is you who prays at sidewalk’s edge, you who takes time to sledge the concrete


Jenna Littlejohn
lives and hardly writes in Oakland, California. She is often talking to new people and eagerly exchanges phone numbers with them. It would be a miracle if either party ever called.