Rebecca Black

Miss B., with Cotton Candy

From sugar-cloud she sees him,

son of the lion-tamer—

how he commands

those wolfhounds, ignites

steel hoops, her flame!

She’ll write him letters

on onion-thin air-mail

as a member of Troop

Forget-me-Not, tier

of knots. She makes herself up

when no one’s home,

shaves her legs until

they bleed and bleed.

Her current dilemma:

to live in art or join

the damned hand-bell

choir of humanity?

She wasn’t quite missing

anything—cherry red Schwinn


mornings were music

on low speed,  Mother

battering a cake.

And Mephista trailed,

Dublette with a KGB-issue

lipstick pistol, shoe-heel receiver.

Sole: This is Soul. Do you read?

Mother and God are not at home.

Unheimlich.  That was exactly it.

Damned carillon, flaming

hoops. Her dress caught

in the spokes! The world

rings and rings.