December 2, 2011

Amanda Auchter

          Dallas, 1963

                                        She said
        don’t wash it, when asked

                if she wanted to change, to take off

                                        the wool skirt, the blue

                lined jacket. I want them to see,

        she said. Kid gloves, a blood bloom

                                on her wrist,
                                        stockings. Swipe of hair

                                across her mouth.
        In the car, she remembers

                                a scatter of yellow

                        roses, black birds rising
                        from the Live Oak. How the children

                                ran alongside as they drove past, waving.

        The open windows. A man with a camera,

                                                an umbrella
                                that opened. A raincoat. In the car,

                                        her body covered with bone,

                                hair. The bright pink suit against the gray
November. And all that red inside her hands.

from Rattle #35, Summer 2011

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