Ben Starr
my daughter orders prickly pear cactus fries at the cowboy club bar & grille
A waitress, armored
in heavy denim,
hands soft as suede
gloves, kicks up
starbursts of sawdust,
delivering plastic
pitchers of bitter
lemonade and salty
bread to a pair of
tiny hands. We ate
rattlesnake sausage
and talked about boys.
A plaster moon
embraced us in
sleeves of light,
led us to our room
where I got high
with thought and
poured forth like
Niobe at Sipylus,
watching fistfuls
of long dead stars
gently slip through
bowls of cooled ink.
Cheap motel
linens, freckled
in candy wrappers.
Aroma of unwashed
Levis and hot slabs
of solar wind.
Television on,
buzzed and warm,
she fell asleep,
mouth agape,
all zigzagged teeth
and cracked lips.
