Poetry

BONNIE PARKER

In your room, shards of restless movement jar,
a hastily assembled mobile. A boy steals your mother’s car.
Later she is brought to you, would rather say nothing
than argue. The hair on your head is counted gold.
Almost unclaimed, a fleeing hive
through blackened corn. Stirred dirt roads begin
to blow in you: the never getting there whistles, an untutored flute.
No-one listens to your writing in the rented room.
He is a shot that relieves these broken interiors.
You learn to pose with a gun, shrug at your not a lover boy.
He can only think in stick ’em up. A cop spits
in your face, a scorned peach, an outlaw architect of dust.