Sieannen Bell

Frankie,
dark-headed girl
with angel wings
etched
in blue ink
from shoulder to ass

Topless in the rain
on my front porch
watching the city
fade to black,
watching a boy
kick broken glass
with his steel-toed boots
up and down the
frost-heaved asphalt

I once saw Frankie
play Ophelia on the stage
back then she burned
with a brilliant madness
with a self-consuming flame
and afterwards she danced
for me in full costume
that black and violet dress
flying out around her
naked brown legs
in the city park
singing Billie Holiday
singing Stormy Blues
like it was the happiest song
in the whole damn world

Vacant eyed child now
smoking unfiltered cigarettes
and singing nothing
while waiting for a fix
waiting for Neil
to come sneaking in
with the next best dose
to send her spiraling
back to somewhere
so she can stand up
without shaking so bad
so she can stop
pacing in the dark
muttering lines
from some play
I don’t have enough
presence of mind
to recognize tonight

Frankie the angel
with wildflower eyes
and a smile that would
break the pope’s heart
and a silver ring in her clit,
she talks crazy to me and I hold her
so she knows I’m really listening
even when her fingers dig
red crescent moons
into the surface of my own pale skin
and she curses herself and
says she’s the world’s
most unoriginal open wound,
holds her small breasts in her hands
and says she’s a slut
really the very worst of the misfits
because she’s got no excuse
to be this fucked up,
says she should be just fine
just fine

She can’t figure out
why she lies on the floor
night after night
with man after man
between thighs already worn
with opening to strangers
why at twenty-four
she is tired and bleeding

she is wishing for a stigmata
wishing for some excuse
to be an addict a whore
half on the streets
half on the stage
half sedated
half manic
and all used up
with wanting

Frankie the angel with
wings that won’t spread
bound to her back
perfect in their stasis
Frankie the angel with
a leather collar on her
neck and fingers that
don’t unclench even
when she sleeps

Whose pillow smells of
incense and spilled wine
just like the man last week
who had an artist’s hands
who paid fifty dollars
to tie her to the bed
and fuck her till she cried
until I screamed
until he finally left
looking inconvenienced
and slightly disturbed
at the hysteria
of two girls
who should
just do their job
and shut the fuck up

Frankie is
a dark headed
angel
is etched
with wings
is looking
for a fix
at 2am
while I hold
her down
and sing those
Stormy Blues
back out into the
dark sky behind
her tightly shut eyes