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.