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For the batshit crazy girls, hair shaved into
cocoons, legs so beautiful and unmendable.
For the terrible feminists, hands the color
of menstruation and thievery.  For the

crane necked women at my window,
white, arms lifted above hip, quiet dogs
at their feet.  For the bitches with breasts

like billboards, babies ripped out,
the scent of anguish and commotion
patted behind the ear.  For the bridesmaids

drinking at the fence, smoking cigars,
emptied out.  Brushing their tender
hides, readying.  For the kids sitting

on telephone wires, can't weigh more
than a sack of nothing.  For my brother's
guns, their limbs extended, their bloody

laundry still slightly wearable.  Sunglasses
tipped down the nose, picking up
insects at the gas station.  I'm

laughing too.  I'm moving my smallest bones,
my femurs are little saws over
your sleeping face.  For the murdering

wives, feeling the brunt of history.  I'm
laughing too, lesions in my purse but also

pepper spray, a military knife.  For
the batshit crazy lovers, joy of gardening,
digging graves.  For the girls taking cover

in bed, because there is nowhere else
to go.  I'm laughing too, long body
bleached like an old horse skeleton,

gone from too much of a beating.

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