Girl or Just Violence from Here: Poem Twelve
She wore blue, velvet hair spiraled and tied, mama’s pearls taken from the cedar chest, and glassy studs pocketed from Christopher’s jewelry on the corner of Main and Bullion by the red door of Sandy’s greasy fried. Out the truck’s glass, in sulfur baby’s breath and asphodel, two red deer rested, doe and fawn. Her cowboy smirked and spied a tawny hide. She cried when the buck-skin boy ruined the black-eyed doe, gashing green steel red, and she cried when his hard fingers zipped down blue silk with southern comforted joy. And she gashed his head red with a blue heel and lost mama’s pearls, her blue dress ripped.