Annie Rex



I met a girl named Ann Hui

who said she didn't care

enough to cry anymore,

sitting half-dressed by her

rain-spattered window,

one more grey Indiana day,

late winter,

first bottle of $5 Merlot: downed.

funky red ashtray: all mounded with butts.



I met a girl named Ann Sile

who rebuffed

my initial advances

at the pool table

but told me later in her Mazda

sipping Beam from my shiny flask

that she'd thought to slash

her husband's blonde jowl

that morning but didn't,

for her kids' sake



I met a girl named Ann Mesh

who set fire to the hair

on the back of my neck

with her breath, who grasped

me so hard her cuticles

filled with my blood, and filled

they remain. Now she's on fire

somewhere down in east Texas.

I'm still here in these woods

in the cold mountains' shadow,

waiting for songs



I fucked a girl named Ann Rage,

now I live in her house.

And I can't get out.

Her ironweed touch

is narcotics, blood, whiskey.

Remedy enough

for one with my

history