enfant terrible
I wake up with your taste in my mouth.
You wake up across the ocean, in your
cousin's arms, in her
whirl of black trestles, her shining
Indian skin, just what you'd
always dreamed of. Dressed up pretty
in all my years, i turn into
the foolish girl, and you with your
failed road and emptied beer cans,
some kind of Kerouac. I hear you,
even you
who could never get past the first
few pages, ruthlessly repeating
you never loved me. And so
life could almost be laughing at
me, with my festering wounds
and my puppy eyes, stuck here while you
ride out onto the beach at dawn with
another, her galloping white mare gone
completely out of control.
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