Even with a broken arm
The girl shoots a bullet through the back
of a car that carries
her Mother’s body
While a cold stick
brushes against a squirrel’s tail
You are a sharkskin girl, I say,
as I pull her teeth apart and put them into little glass jars.
You make me young again, I purr,
as I meld my hip to her backbone.
She is vanilla soft-serve iced tea, I think,
with a cherry crushed between my teeth.
This is not rock and roll, I plead,
as my blood
trickles down the silver glassware,
all the way onto her toes,
all the way onto the