The tail light put the dark
in her mouth, this rubied gleam.
Black lake beneath her nightgown
littered with sparklers and roman
candles. At home, the stockyard filth
in her mother's kitchen sullies
the mended bedspreads.The bleached
bones of peaches. She breathes
a little sometimes. Swallows a silver
locket lifted from the thrift store.
Not the real girl with the dress
rehearsal and the geometry of sixes.
But the one gone musty in the throat.
Gone deep in the milk white.