• A.J. Super

Girl or Just Violence from Here: Poem Seven


Thief

Mommy stashed a small canvas cross stitch in her purse, because I coveted Rock ’n’ Roll Barbie on the toy aisle and on another, her hands were filled with a calico of strings. So the two laser altar boys burst as we departed the dingy white store, and the three black polyester pressed policemen, came to cuff her, and my eight year old scream shot through the cracked confessional window as they ushered her to their white striped Crown Royal, lights shining and left me locked in our bronze age Honda, wanting to tear their eyes and bludgeon them with howls of “It was an accident,” and “It was my fault,” because it was. Now I pray as three pressed policemen park, Crown Royal lights shining, to speak of one black masked man wearing a gold cross, and the Barbie doll girl who peed her pants now covered in white because she couldn’t stop howling, “I had an accident,” and the red eyed man had a hair trigger.

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