Slugger

I want to take a bat
to a picket fence
and then weep
with the homeowners
over the wreckage.
I could never be
a suspect, cardigan
and pink lips.
I was taught well
before birth: Smoking
a King Edward cigar
and driving a pick-up
truck, my father, age 13.
When I am turned
into a blind fox
I can wander toward
old loves and say
it’s not my fault.

I’m Not a Robust Girl

who knows how to operate
a chainsaw, cutting firewood
into even pieces, untied
hair blowing in the breeze.

I look like I should
be wearing a pinafore.
I look like I should collect
glass unicorn figurines.
I look like a Victorian
in a medical illustration
for swollen glands.

For someone who spends
so much time blowing
her nose, I get a lot of dates.
My thoughts on polio
are fascinating.

If I could work a chainsaw,
I would hit the throttle,
scare off excessive suitors.

Butter Sad

When I feel so sad
I want to be an elderly
woman churning butter
I stir cheese dip
and pretend I’m standing
next to a barn. I call out
to the horses. When one
rolls her eyes at me
I bring up her failed career
as a race horse. She settles
down, but I won’t let it go.
What was your name
in your racing days? Blaze?
More like Meander.
She reminds me I’m standing
next to a microwave
talking to myself.

Undisclosed

2
Ex-boyfriend
says (frequently)
if I were an Amish girl,
I would leave
for Rumspringa
and never come back.
I would have escaped
before that.