Liz Barrett Browning
never carried a gun,
or strapped it to the
inside of her thigh.
That .38 revolver cold
against her skin, makes
Bonnie sigh. Warmer
in the palm of hand,
the finger squeezing
the trigger. She’s done
with the poem. She’ll
copy and send to the
papers who’ll lap it up
like sour milk to a thirsty
cat. Penned it well, she
thinks. Clyde says nothing
on it; he reads the headlines
for the crimes. She read
Liz Browning at school
amongst others, that
woman thing, shared
insight, mutual feelings,
knows the monthly bleeds,
understands the feel of
men, the coming on, that
big hero thing. She feels
the revolver against her
flesh, metal on skin, warming
now, forgetting it’s there.
This is one thing, Bonnie
says, smiling, Liz won’t share.
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 4:14 PM UTC
Liz Barrett Browning
never carried a gun,
or strapped it to the
inside of her thigh.
That .38 revolver cold
against her skin, makes
Bonnie sigh. Warmer
in the palm of hand,
the finger squeezing
the trigger. She’s done
with the poem. She’ll
copy and send to the
papers who’ll lap it up
like sour milk to a thirsty
cat. Penned it well, she
thinks. Clyde says nothing
on it; he reads the headlines
for the crimes. She read
Liz Browning at school
amongst others, that
woman thing, shared
insight, mutual feelings,
knows the monthly bleeds,
understands the feel of
men, the coming on, that
big hero thing. She feels
the revolver against her
flesh, metal on skin, warming
now, forgetting it’s there.
This is one thing, Bonnie
says, smiling, Liz won’t share.
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