Out in one of those western states where nobody lives,
she clawed her way out of the dirt where I had buried her
during a desperate fit,
under a vulture sun.
Everybody out there has got a gun, and so did the lonesome rancher
she first kissed after spending the night in his pick up truck.
She fed him his own bullets like candies
and charged him for them, too.
She has your barbed bones, but her heart is a rattle gourd.
Out there, she got fat on the stupid and the slow,
then starved herself down to a focused edge.
Today, at the bottom of a drawer, I found the kimono I bought
in the hopes that you would like me in it.
I never wear it anymore,
not after the anthill ceremony you call fun.
Returning home, I took love out to the yard and chopped its head off,
fed it to silence, to injury, and to hopelessness.
It refused to die, but became something else--
this girl-- so I poisoned her with your every word and
left her in the desert.
Now she's awake,
one lung full of stacksmoke and the other collapsed and dying,
but still able to articulate her wild hatred and intention
for both of us.
for Mag 278.