Rank

she could smell a cop uncanny

she could swing a bat without shame

she could feel a milligram difference on her middle finger

lids dropped chin lifted slight sway like trancing

circled men silent awaited the verdict

                              light or heavy

she could knock’em out, piston fist’em

keep her mouth shut hours or days

pout it and drop’em, slink blend the wallpaper

when the law busted loudmouth’s party on the cul-de-sac

  slither out unseen

with somebody’s bottle of Jack off the kitchen table

                                       since they’d be in jail anyway

cuss like a barge worker, laugh big, or never be made to

no matter what, when she wanted

verbal drop any professor

terrify a badger with a glance black squint

or purr sable

only would scoot under the bed

let them push boxes and towels around her

shallow breathe this custody

for the Outlaws

                                no others

and when the big men came

to the back house from out of town

and wouldn’t answer to the names they said theirs

up the volume

Or, whatever the fuck your real name is, Boss Man,

offer a cold beer from the fridge                               

firm arm curled out stretching supple

arch twisted brown tied halter painted jeans

and they snapped to


Originally published by Anti-Heroin Chic.

Photo credit: Beth Kimball, 1999.