A. Marie/The Larkspur Horne
She’s got her heartbeats timed, rural baby waking, traveling, drinking,
buying instead of baking pie, burning her toast and rolling up
a dozen pink socks, a six pack of infantile dreams
that never left; she drove right on through her teens
and now languishes in her twenties,
went international and cross-country, went scuba diving
in Máncora, Peru, but never shook off the little ghost.
She’s still seeking
that adult high.
She’s iGen, with two Bachelors and going for her Masters, but she’s still bouncing
from cashier to cashier to Patreon, galvanized by pro-women
pop-culture icons, weighing herself five times a day,
counting Likes, Pins, Hearts, Right Swipes, Followers, Hits, Shares;
she’s lonely, but tries not to be afraid. Licks the sovereign blanc
from her lips and gives sad boys the finger, makes her signature
bubbly and large, thick and dashing.
She keeps her jets cool.
she’s thrashing, popping anxiety…
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