Sculpture of a Lady Scorned

When wolfsbane gets waterlogged
i give up on growing up.
Reflections: “SHE’S A WASTELAND!”
SHE’S A WASTELAND!”
Dry, arid uterus, cannot reproduce
if cannot hold rain—
“SHE’S A WASTELAND.”
O Love, O Love, O Sweet O Love,
she thunderclaps— —claps— —claps—
Listen here, she tells her people;
Let us not lust for lust, the men;
“SHE’S A WASTELAND.”
“SHE’S A WASTELAND.”
Essentially sensual, the sex brews:
Hello, they say, but it is not dared
to take more. Have another,
Have another: “SHE’S A WASTELAND.”
O Sober somber lips she has—
she refuses the temple; gold
flutes have no influence on the moon.

Big Dipper

She misses the moon—
when Jupiter cries she misses
the superior August moons.

Flutists- their champagne
piccolos. They prefer wine but
still get drunk off hypotheticals.

Uncrossed fingers in a way—

Piano keys are something similar
to always- St. Louis stars find
their way back to Union Station.

Footstools, they chant.

Stairs, they reply.

The Missouri River

When the Missouri River ran dry—
it smelled like milkweed, like purple
clouds of pollen— bees and the butterflies
try to refill with their tears.

When the Missouri River ran dry—
three million pennies line the bank, and
the steel that drew iron was made into warriors’
helmets prepped for battle.

When the Missouri River ran dry—
the fruit from the trees was somehow
still out of reach.

When the Missouri River ran dry—
we remember we are the generation of seaweed—
we maintain our shape when plucked for
flower bouquets.

When the Missouri River ran dry—
we uncrossed our legs and un-batted our
eyelashes.

When the Missouri River ran dry—
we were grateful, golden girls who had been
begging for a drought.

Black Pearl

Black Pearl sails—
pearly, sweet-tea seas.

Two zebras and cubic wood,
he hits with hammers. All salt-
structured he thinks. This ship’s
her body.

Oyster lips, she has. kiss treasure,
there’s no water— (mist does not
exist here).

Remind her of you and she’ll
never forget. rocks are for you,
astrolabes are for us.

Give her citrus, citrus feels like
flying. She uses the rinds for
smiles— (there are no
wastelands here).

gold, gold, gimme gimme
gold rings.

jade is always chipped after you.

Dustbowl Dreaming

come on! it’s time for the great American
dustbowl dream! if you blink for too long,
you’ll miss it. waking up is a luxury you
can’t afford if you’re working your way to it.

i’m gonna write my first big-girl story
and sell it to the papers. before you know
it my name will be headlining my head—
lying on feather pillows.

it’s gone a little too fast, but it’s fine ‘cause
i know if i had the world at my feet i’d
probably take that chance.

back home is full of gravel gritting between
teeth to give up chewing tobacco. it’s more
accessible than sunflower seeds.

invisible fences split into two-by-five
squares separate us only holding on
by the electricity between our collars.

God-dusted husks of wheat grains mama
beat into bread old-fashioned ‘cause bread
makers made girls gone wild, she says.

and we’re all in boxes again and i’m
yelling echo-location, i’m down in the
well! water’s at my ankles and my wrists
are blistered.