Donna

 

Donna in her soft socks and french fry legacy
lamenting of long lost days
she was wilder wielding trinkets sapphire spirit
drinking from the creek cursing all white fathers
she was fifteen pounds lighter a dancer a jubilee
a blonde hawk for moonstone
and chicken breast

Donna does not shave anymore
she doesn't have anyone worth the allure
the thin black artist's stroke along the contours of her
ruby slipper slick for fantasy
and for her own clumsy fingers
invisible barricade in her bed
termite mounds of some other life's clothes
Donna giving her water to a sadness of her own contrivance.

TA