This is 50+ page sequence of free verse poems.
Here is an excerpt:
It’s the usual question:
crotchless or white cotton
with an elastic waist?
Forego elegance in the name
of Grandma panties, hiked
beyond the belt line? Just like
years before, Vicky wants
all things lace and frilly,
but shakes her head, tosses
a bargain pack into
her shopping cart. She glances
over her shoulder, but pauses
and thinks of Harry and how
his breath goosebumped her neck.
She blushes. Glances over
her shoulder again, just so
Super Shop and Drop’s asset protection
officer isn’t eyeing her (like before,
when she shoplifted spearmint gum,
a store-brand pregnancy test, and
and dye to black out brown hair).
Crotchless has always been her carnal
dream – her desire for a man’s desire
for her, anywhere, any place, any time:
She holds the crotchless underwear
over her head. Looks at the lace
in the light, imagines wearing them
for Harry, hustling him quite hard
into a public toilet or a bar backroom.
She imagines his teeth – light bites
on her ears, his arms hugging
her close – with no need for clothes
to be stripped off – just a hiked up skirt.
But daydreams alway become disasters.
Dogs start barking, howling – her mind
goes to a decrepit house, a rusted fence,
a VHS camera on a tripod, her uncle
and his grin across rotting gums and teeth,
as he dips two fingers into petroleum jelly
warmed on a microwaves rotary dish.
Vicky bites her lip, draws blood.
She won’t cry, she tells herself: I won’t
I won’t, I won’t, I won’t, I won’t, I won’t.
Before she walks away, she places
the fancy panties back on the peghook.
Harry, would you still love me if
I lost both legs and half of an arm
to starving, drooling zombies, or—
Or! A pack of flea-bitten werewolves?
You even listening? Vicky traces
fingertips over his chest. Stares
at his half-asleep wandering eyes.
What if a policeman told you
a one-eyed maniac with a mouth
filled with rotting stumps
kidnapped me and locked me in
a basement filled with leaking pipes–
would you mount a daring rescue?
Harry sighs slowly. That’d be fixed
if you went and got your G.E.D.
Are you going to do phone sex
the rest of your life? Vicky turns
away, squirms to the bed’s edge.
Take a hint, she says and sleeps.
Harry cuddles up close, watching
her every snoring breath, the scars
thickly crosshatching her wrists;
Harry softly whispers, I’m so sorry –
not enough silver bullets in this world
could slow or stop what haunts you.