Nostalgia reclines on my couch
skimming photos of my feral girls
now grown to incredible women —
these girls with poem-drunk tongues
and bonfire hearts; burning silhouettes
of brief lives into concrete walls;
who made a slam dance of history,
carving defiance on their knuckles,
pockets full of gasoline and matchbooks;
who trailed heartbreak like smoke –
Pavlov’s boys behind them, unsuitable, less solid
than the boxer’s glint that steadied them to new bells;
who wore intellect as glamour, war-paint aesthetics,
speaking rain dance and leather, speaking rain —
claiming poems from the char of lightning strikes.
To them, who amaze me still,
I wish them that lightning
to keep forever in their hands.
Poem of the Week
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Girls, Guns & Hot Rods:
by Jami Beck
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