Same place as always:
the bars and the cars,
the bridges and gullies,
sunning with gators in sawgrass.

She claims to have lured
Weldon Kees to the bay
with a wave
of the arm,
and a smile.

Why wouldn’t we
believe her, believe
she’s marked every one of her drownings
with the plunk
of a flipped centavo?

Every boy that she claims,
every girl that she culls
from the arms of her mother

is another step down
on the treadmill to heaven.

She’s still
crashing the parties on Cinco de Mayo,
Dia de los Muertos,
sucking the sugar skulls shapeless,
tucking razors in Halloween apples.
Still the shiz-nit, she claims,
“but I’d love a Hollywood Star.”

She’s working the crowds,
mute as a Disneyland Pooh.

She hooked up last March
with Freddie Prinz.

The accent’s ditched – a flowered Microbus
in Laredo.

She wants a job with the gringos.

She’s not getting
any older.

The same beauty mark which drew
Cortez’ teeth

lured a boy who thought
he had balls
for some action.

There’s something about her.

Even her bones are tattooed.

Her autographs
are worth Marilyn Monroe’s,
circa 1987.
She’s still
in the same B movies.

She’s still in the room
with a star on the door

(Don’t bother knocking),

rolling a peso
tight on her thigh,

alone

snorting coke
the color of bronze,
dry blood she’s crushed into powder.