In the wild west, I’m a saloon girl:
corset caged, on the hustle.  I brighten

evenings for lonely men who pay
to be poisoned. I’ve fled farms,

prefer soused sweat
to udders taut like balloons.

I know of money and bodies:
each become sticky when handled.

I open like a matchbook.
Heated friction ignites a rye belly,

he combusts my face. I burn well.
I survive to plot my pistol’s pull

from kid boots. Covet weight:
wood grips, nickel plates. Alone,

I kick hued petticoats, my gruff heels
scar wood: boxcarred, like the flesh
he’ll be buried in.