“A Prairie Girl Dreams a Slice”

of pizza from Federici’s downtown. Olive oil
garlic knots in a brown paper bag. Connor’s got
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new Vans and wants to grind rails near the wintry
Atlantic. But in Freehold, NJ deli counters spill pickle
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juice: Sesame, Everything, Poppyseed mess
trails to CVS. Briny brick sidewalks disappear
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under lore: Molly “Pitcher” Hays loaded
her husband’s gun. This is revolution
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where battle-men fell at Monmouth, where
water drowned each cannon blast on hills
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now covered in pink plastic sleds. Crazy
carpets and black inner tubes down slopes.
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These green Doc Martens can hold out snow.
Stomp a pit. Slam dance a traffic light from yellow
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to red. Tarmac causes borough wars and warm cars
drip oil in brackish mouth salts. This stone fire oven
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bakes sickly conversations. One-trick girl. Red cheeks,
red gums, dots on backseats. The Holland Tunnel
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to New York City or a train to Philly. You parrot
explosions, mimic guffaws down creaky halls.
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You flush every secret from each gland. Lymph node
or lodestar. You pick the difference. Locations you keep
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muffled in a rag on your blue collared shirt. Hey, my name
is Connor. Squiggle lines white at the gas station pump.
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Glossy wheels on a Sector 9 trace cement cracks along
the shore. Mermaid fountains patina in snow, in rain, in Rita’s
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Famous Italian Ices. Gelato slides from mustachioed lips.
Fossicking in cold sand for needles, for shells, for wool
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blankets that keep warm. Atlantic Ocean meets folding
night. You’re no working girl, verklempt on the ferry,
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swapping white tennis shoes for a pair of high heels. That’s some
Staten Island shit. The mill’s abandoned, the boys are all gone. Sing
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in reverse ball bearings. This is a battle cadence: a prairie girl
wakes in a silo near Balzac. Highway lines to All Dress chips.