Rebecca Loudon

She rocked in her boat, her sky-
blue boat, her billow ripsail boat,
he said put your fingers inside, I want
to see you there, spread open like a fish.
She sewed her mouth shut with 12 weight
line, little fishy, nevertheless trout, oh fly
in a sky-blue boat while all the dogs
in the world lolled their tongues and farted
and puked in the trumpet-sick night,
let fly spittle, let fly the blood-wet sails.
          Another girl dead on the railroad tracks.
          She had a fight with her lover, walked
          the quick way back to the road.
          Someone shouted over the barking dogs
          listen! but two trains
          traveled in opposite directions.
          She got confused, thought she was inside,
          inside the steel and hot snort, looking out
          the observation car's curved window,
          tapped a silver fork against her teeth,
          leaned back on the scarlet headrest,
          thumpathumpathumpathumpa.
          Stupid girl, and when the lurch
          began and began and began
          she spilled her champagne,
          glanced out the window, curious.
          It took an entire plate of oysters
          for the train to stop.
She sewed her mouth shut, pink murmur, the lovely
Olmsted architecture of her belly, blood rising
in him like a harbinger as she squatted in the bushes,
pee down her leg, crimson flag, stinging flag.
When he was finished, she carried his head
on a tea tray, pulled hard the sodden hair,
whispered, I love you, I love you.