by Monica Crumback
She spits the word out
like a pearl from her mouth,
sliding around in the smooth
of her seat, one puffed goose
stuffed with joie de vivre. Not me;
I’m riding hungry. Famished,
I finger the secret holes through
the scraping blue of my jeans.
I wait, just me. I don’t get to say
what she will be. She’s still skin
without definition while I
crust and pluck and bleed.
Seven syllables, half trying to,
a rich girl’s stab at mean. Go on.
I’ve got my scabs with me,
my blood, my honest jeans.
– refers to the word “jeans” in The Most Dangerous Part by Nancy Devine