Wagon Girl (2013)

Hands in her pockets to hide the scars
her father carved in with swiss army knives-
the scissor ends. not the nail file or
sharpest edge.

The music in her head called poison
control when she drank herself a hole though
her stomach lining,
perfect timing to admit she
needs a change,
but don’t make that
agreement binding,
cause this wagon has no
guard rails.

“We may turn a corner, and wheels
rolling down the
ravine cannot hold my
weight.”

Hood over the hair to mask the sprawling
disrepair her mother
left when
she planted one final
kiss on her daughter’s
cheek, said she’d be home
one week
tomorrow.

And she thought eight days alone in the
company of her monster had
teeth,
she had yet to meet the
dentures she’d have
to borrow when
he broke
her smile in the
bed she’d never
sleep in
again.

Three years after Mom should have
walked in the
door,
decorum
speaks in riddles on
sorrow’s shores.

She sits up the beach,
Scotch in her hand,
shipwrecked
indefinitely,
losing consciousness around 3 A.M.

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