Tempest

For Ave­line de Rais Rubinshteyn

she is stand­ing in thrall to the tempest
she has noth­ing to lose but her hide
she knows all the tricks and she’s seen all the hicks
and she’s secretly crying inside

her skin is a rock­ing horse palimpsest
she has noth­ing to give but her throat
the hum of the trees and the buzz­ing of bees
and a smile like an over­blown coat

so she screams when the wire­less plays songs from the west
and she throws away needles and pills
she’s done with the dolls and the blonde gang­ster molls
and she packs up and heads for the hills