i was jo, then.
writing plays on tobacco leaves,
flat-chested and virulent.

once, amy.
amorous and greedy
with rapped wrists and
orange peels cascading from pocket twills.

never meg,
responsible and coy.
like ankles peeked under breeches,
porcelain/dirty.

beth, maybe.
with graphite pencils
and lonesome fever.
almost too timid to die.

and jo, again.
stubborn/boyish, promiscuous--
with no parisian lover behind opera lens.
and my laurie stayed behind to drink cheap whiskey,
but a better jo would not have joined him.

11/25/2007

Posted on 11/25/2007
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