she lies
cheap red hair dye
screaming from the pillowcase:
"Look at what you've done!
Look at what you've carelessly
allowed to happen again!"
She slithers back into her summer dress--
no undergarment in, no undergarment out--
excusing herself down your stairwell
for the first and last
in a lifetime
playing out a farmer's phrase
that splits you like a plow:
"If you're born to be shot
you'll never be hanged."
The sour smell of gunpowder
sticks to the surrounding air.
No wonder you're the way you are.
No wonder you're away.
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