psifi1138 (psifi1138) wrote in poetryworkshop,
psifi1138
psifi1138
poetryworkshop

FIFTY MILES FROM NOWHERE, MONTANA

She sits on moonlit tracks leading nowhere
And the smoke curls from her lips
Into the moist, caressing breeze
Only to lose its scent in the smell of the wood from the mill.

She shifts her feet in the fuzzy slippers she, again,
Had forgotten to take off.
And now they were getting dirty and torn
And Mother would be asking her soon
How they'd gotten so ragged.

From far off in the distant dark
The air carries the rumble and clatter of steel
Rolling on unknown tracks leading
Somewhere.

This is where she sits most nights
After her goodnight kiss.
When Mother's and Daddy's light goes out
And Whiskers and baby Charlotte lay cozy in their little beds
She slinks out of the rusted aluminum neighborhood,
Barefoot when she remembers to be,
And watches the moonlight dance
Or feels the cold rain soak her nightclothes.

She often goes to Dean's house
Because it's probably a bad idea.
Dean, who's old enough to drive but never does
Because there's nowhere to ever go.
Dean, who sits around all night with bottles and knives
While his father works 'the grave.'

The grave. The pile of lumber fifty yards down track.
The place the most recent body'd been found,
Half-eaten by something half-human.
And she wonders what it must have felt like.

She and Dean had spoke a bit about it
And he'd said it must become addicting;
That maybe the first time was hard and awkward
But that you must start to get horny for it.
And though he kind of understood it
He wasn't sure he'd "have the stones", he'd said.

And she can understand it too
Because it must be quite a thing to feel.
And there is nothing to experience here.
And her body keeps changing and wanting to feel new things.

There are so many sensations she wants to try
And she always wonders "What was it like?"
Of what someone else had done.
And she knows only what it's like to sneak back into bed
With dirty feet or tattered slippers.

So she smothers the cigarette against the rail
And watches the flame slowly die,
Exhaling its ghost into the damp heavens.
And she looks across the rails and the street
At the light in Dean's window.

And she walks in the dark to his door
To find out what it feels like.
The knife entering flesh,
The rush of blood, the rush of breath.
And she tells him
"I want to be your first time."
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