What will you make of me?
A wanted poster?
A tarot card?
An advertisement for skin or a warning against
such pleasures of the flesh?
Stern temperance or wet
for your long stretch of dry county?
light is a thought barely spoken -
its utterance snuffed against my angular bones.
My eyes are the stones
cast at witches and whores.
My cunt is old
as the four edges of the world.
But I'm just a girl.
All alone, sir
and awfully grateful for your care.
yes, take me home, sir;
take my picture if you dare.
A rather rough draft for Fireblossom Friday at Real Toads