Poetry, Vol. 1.2, Sept. 2007
The hooved girl won’t hardly leave the tent.
Won’t let the gawkers near enough to touch
the glossy tresses, chestnut as a mare.
Now, it’s all washtubs and stolen pocket watches,
the poison boutonnière.
She’d send pigeons if she had them.
Instead, trawls the crowd for the man
with the widest grin. Spreads her thighs
against the hood of his truck and thinks
of her mother’s house in Dayton full
of dresses and coffeepots.
Quiets his grunting with a quick kick
to the ankles. A quick twitch of her silky tail.
The radio glows like arsenic.
Everything all gauzy as good muslin.
Her Coney Island, her vaudeville farce.
Rows on rows of debutantes.
She conjures a cry at the back of her throat.
Can taste tungsten, a little wire.