A siren’s song, though irresistibly sweet, is no less sad than sweet, and laps both body and soul in a fatal lethargy, the forerunner of death and corruption.
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She let their cruel words, their dirty looks,
roll off her back— verbal blows easier
to take than a limb being ripped off;
and just maybe the words were more tender
than a 1,000 jokers between her legs.
In a deck of 52, there was no
marriage card for women like her...
women who took on guns,
bigger than their worn bodies,
behind the old fruit crating factory.
Her Life Passport shredded
in tomorrow’s circus, she cried
as each bit of stamped paper
made it clear her magic was gone;
she was a refugee in the stomach of some truck
Racing for the border,
her neighbors running faster than she...
None crawled under fences,
none wanted to be strip searched.
She wanted to go home—back to the shark’s mouth.
(Painting by Malcolm T. Liepke)