Free Entry 1, Week 6

I. Alice

I pegged her for Dickenson. Shining
By her side floats Collected Poems. Quaint
Lady. Poet. Playwright (one in New York).

My starry eyed glamour filled ramble rattle
head - fuzz. All at what she lives. I ask,
What do you devote your time to presently?

A cookbook. Well a journey really.
South Florida. What does she cook
up? Timid. I hear nothing of her voice

Above a smiling hello. The chomping fangs
Come out alone with Dickenson, wearing
White, hanging in the breeze of the balcony.

Below her suburbanite kids mate. Sweaty
Awkward sex for drugs. When she is not here
Editing, pecking, Dickenson-nizing, she

Recites Blanche Dubois. She weighs heavy.
A twelve year old girl, fat and dancing
In front of the mirror. She buys pink

Stationary placing slips between the leaves
Of her home potter plant. Ripping
The parchment from the leaf hands

Of a plastic greenery Stanley. Pink
Deeds. Dressed in toilet paper minks,
Tin can Chinese lanterns. She cries

And laments. Swaying to the pantry
Caressing the cheek of her can corn
Suitors. South Florida bayou nutcase.

What swamps rasp the roots of her dark
Abstract words? How many “loves,”
“bleaks,” and “lies” ravel around

An alligator tooth? Where’s her white
Dress with the girl inside? She leaves
Everyday with one more word in hand.