She’s swung in backwash,
turbulent storms of exhausting
broadcasts, night preachers
from Houston and radios of atmosphere
dedicated on the plucked lawns of childhood,
what is right in a movie and
wrong for the flesh that heart
pushes her blood toward all day.
Because men own guns
they own women
and earth like
their own beards
Because women own guns
they own men
and grass like
their own eyelashes …
So many fences, tying ideas to earth.
She stays on the wrong side
of the highway, diesel trucks honking
a leer at her skinny brown legs.
She just walks, looking
for something not tied to her.
All she can use is about
one square yard
at a time.
orphan poems 