Annie Oakley and Mary Magdalene
find themselves clothed and naked.
Annie wears a long skirt, her arms
demurely covered.
Mary has her secrets.
I clean my rifle.
Mary likes to see the long sleek barrel,
the blued metal tube so dangerously uninvolved,
the brass receiver glinting,
like a submarine in a whale.
Move closer Mary.
I think Annie is going to shoot us.
Annie smiles and winks.
This is what she does best.
Her small figure
as pert as a shiny pin.
Right ear, left breast. She says taking aim.
We don't hear the discharge.
My right ear explodes
and a red cavity opens in a left breast.
Later we go down to the lake
find a spot amid a mattress of white daisy flowers,
watch them turn into crimson sunsets.
Mary and I stop bleeding.
Annie sings a lullaby
a crow taught her in the Ohio wilderness.
The Magdalene drapes a thigh over my lap,
her flesh so translucent
that I can see her leg bone.
Oakley pours wine into our wounds,
kisses us both
with her thin
Katharine Hepburn lips.
~~
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Rita Bourland
heidibeth
Dr. Spudman44
hilarad
Brazen Princess
M. C. S.
Salon.com
Comments
are encouraging.