Poem: From the backseat of my aunt’s Chevy

From the backseat
her red hair an accusation.
Thin, careworn, and cunning
burnt forever by that long-ago season;
she knows the wrong things.

Dissolute pools
trapping the blue sky,
her mascara-smeared eyes lie,
looking backly.

“This is how the world is,”
“this is how the world is.”

Her disjoint face abandons
the words she forces;
words are flight,
purposed for betrayal.

The Fall creeps in,
steals what is not hers;
is merciless.

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