Write I Like It On The Windshield I Fly Through
by Hannah K. Messler

    The specter of my death
    leches around in parking lots,
    skirts hiked all up to hell,
    flashing ass at motorists.
    She twists cigarettes
    like she's manipulating
    a puppet, her grin a bat
    to shriek from her jawline--
    cancer a canary to perch at her lip.
    Her hard knuckles, yellow as mortar,
    clutch at something ghetto-wrapped and potent.
    She is engorged
    with the glory
    of herself--rabid as a hangover,
    crushing glass under her shoes
    like a Jew at a wedding.

    She filters through to me
    from the wilted recesses of mirrors--
    her dank eyelashes, those spider-spines,
    are swarming with my bones, her bluejeans crumpling
    with visions of my hips . . .
    That unprincess bitch,
    that kitchen-dweller hovel of a woman,
    my known and lithe Godiva.

    I will turn scurvy like the rest of you . . .
    leukemiac . . .emphysema'd . . .
    something ungraceful will take me
    and I will sink from the buoyance of days.
    I, however, will reek sweet of that departure,
    will gnaw death like a shish-kebab,
    will plunge into it
    like a sprung virgin--
    threshing the sheets with the awkward thunder
    of that tumble . . .
    with the brilliant cunt of my death,
    who doesn't give a rowdy fuck.






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