From Sharkforum

TROUBLE

The girls you love make beautiful suicides,
breaking off heels, losing orchid
corsages beneath backseats of Buicks.

This one speaks through the curtain
of her hair— the sweet blonde number,
soft machine of her ribs humming,

an engine block full of bees.
The dark has too much rigging. The moon,
projected on a screen with tinfoil stars,

is full of holes. Bankrupt gas stations,
the backs of women's calves.
Your flares set fire to the homecoming float,

the gym and all its paper carnations—

mouths gone metallic pink
harbor tire irons, rhinestone tiaras.

© Kristy Bowen 2007