Always trust a red door
On a black Camaro, thighs
Sticking to the vinyl in the June
Sun, pinking up the place.
Here, the apple don’t fall
From the tree. Here, whatever you
Find lying on the ground is yours.
A scratch-off waiting to strike. The shade
From a sidelong glance. You’re looking at
What happens when a body fights back
Three years after the fact. Three years
After the fact: the sweet morning
Stench of you sweating out last night’s liquor
Just by pushing my tongue against the porcelain
Crown glued in my mouth, like hitting a switch.
Every town I leave, I leave on scholarship.
Nothing looks better to me than seeing
Nothing for miles. I can fit everything
I love into this trunk, into my own two arms,
Into my backhanded smile. And this gas station
Bathroom is more than just an American
Notion of the dirtiest place on Earth. It’s where
I’ll put on my face. I know how to wipe
A scene clean. And then I’m gone, love, like
I was never there. And even if it could hear
You at these speeds, the backseat don’t
Care a lick what you have to say. Sweetheart,
I sympathize with the assassin in every story.
Copyright © 2020 Amy Woolard
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Alice James Books.