WINTER 2013 (Issue 77)
 

Rachel Rinehart

Prison Queen on the Lam

It begins this way: we festoon messages across the firmament.
They flap between us like doves.

Rumor films over me
as mildew emeralds the johns:

Once, I took a donkey like a man.
Its fetus gallops in my womb.
I snap fingers easy as beans.

Per my letters, you bake glass into cobblers,
secrete needles in bruised peaches, send them away
in oblong packages. When at last the matron falls,

her insides mushy as chokecherry pie
you belly up out of the dirt, make ready your truck.

Together we suck hard syllables on interstate signs
pay for rooms with jars of jam,
plums that bleed in five gallon buckets.

Nights, you delve between my legs,
knuckle seeds out of musk melon.

We trace our escape route on cantaloupe rinds.