orange barrels
2003-06-06, 6:58 p.m.
The moon is a fingernail imprint tonight...
A scar left over from her
too-tight grip and indian-burn eyes,
Playing hide-and-seek
behind the smoke spilling from my cracked window.
Cracked out
and cranked up,
I am crawling down I-35
past the row of orange barrels...
1, 2, 3... 4,675 orange barrels
that she swore they didn't put up until 8.
But it's 7:35 and 95 degrees outside....
and I'm fucking crawling down I-35...
as fast. as. I. can.
away from her.
cat scratches. and vampire bites.
cascading down my arms.
away from her.
velvet black handgun
that she keeps by the alarm clock.
away from her.
40-year-old car
that stubbornly refuses to start.
And I guess that's the difference between me. and. her.
us. we. he... she... it. they.
She... is stuck.
My xenophobic Xanax baby.
My agoraphobic acid lady.
Growing shrooms in a pressure cooker in her closet...
Growing ready-made, pre-packaged families
complete with husbands and nine-month-old babies.
Tying her apron strings a little too tight
for that three hour trans-Texas flight
back to that place
that hates queers and piercings
and women who don't know their places.
back to that place
that loves guns
but hates her fuck you attitude...
That attitude that I adored
until I was standing at her door,
surreptitiously sneaking out
before daddy came home
to his homecooked meal
that I drove her to the store. to. buy.
And I'm left...
clenching my fists,
flipping over my ivory wrists...
clutching for straws
in those fingernail imprints.
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