Transmission №13
A Poem to Help You Lose the Persimmon Queen Contest
After you spilled hot cider
on the opal-purple plastic
sequins of the dress our great-
grandma bought you, we ran
down a cigarette-smoke
saturated neon alley
that dripped red blues and greens
between ivy-wrapped cracks
in the antique-brick buildings
across the lopsided street.
Carnies barked over plywood
counters draped in tablecloths,
shouting, “Prize every time!”
at kids grabbing pink ducks
from a foodcolor-blue model
of the White River, while other kids
popped balloons with darts like
the syringes our town is famous for
stabbing like stakes into undead
methed-out arms, and we hid
behind a coffin-shaped green porta-
potty near the chain-linked swings.
You held your nose in a gloved hand
and tried to dry the steaming cider
with a napkin I found hanging
half-out a yellow trashbag
full of skunked beer and flies,
and you said, through mascara-
poisoned bubbling black streams
and sour-pink lips, “Mamaw’s probably
mad enough I only won
Miss Congeniality — just imagine
how mad she’s going to be when mom
goes to the hospital tomorrow
and tells her that the cocktail-
dress she worked to death to put
her spoiled great-granddaughter in
smells like rotten apple pie!”
Like this? You can read my poem, “The Ghost of Sam Bass and the Gold in Half-Moon,” at the link below.
