The Redhead
S.H. Woodgeard
My father is talking fast, telling me how the redhead is waiting for him.
My father is talking fast, telling me how the redhead is waiting for him.
Gone, like T9 texting, is the once exciting novelty of being important, popular, scandalous
when congress bans our faves we will smuggle them through customs and call it praxis
I knew the talk about a baby was another red flag, but the more uncontrollable Amelie became, the deeper I got hooked. I couldn’t go back to what my life was before. I think it had been drowned the
The thing about Grandma is that she seems to show up unannounced and she doesn’t care about the substance of the prayers, just that they end in Amen.
I know Max is probably hard by the time we get to the overlook at the dam. He puts the car in park and tells me he mixed a cd, just for me, because I’m so special.
- I can’t believe this is
He’s still rambling about my womanhood, my untapped, ethereal potential, when I reach for a tissue and blow his hot load out of my nostril.
But her coup de grace was when she started bringing a white boyfriend to our parties. He was a real champion. His name was John.
What’s your name? Like an oak
I want to carve a heart
into our washing machine.
We started as open, NOT poly. This was a very important distinction to us, despite not having a working definition of either types of relationships. It was, we both agreed, substantially less cringe
Definitely one poet holdover is just being a magpie for weird
Mysterious beauty spot the farra on cheek.