Sammie Jo don’t talk much.
Her mother like to cut out her tongue
any time she speaks up.
A bone outta socket.
As big as the couch she sits on;
you could fluff her like a piller.
At eighteen, her face is oldest stone.
That couch become her throne, this
country her kingdom- she lords it over
with mute condescension.
At eighteen, her breasts roll like hills
and her hair is everywhere.
___
The featured image accompanying this poem, entitled ‘Blush’, has been used with the permission of artist Lois Van Baarle.
