A former Mafia wife from Milan who
collected gargoyles nailed to Bolivian
crucifixes, she demanded boyfriends
suck her elbows and cling to those
skinny ribs like exhausted chain saws.
I met redheaded Roxyanna two weeks
after she kissed her hippo-belly
husband for ten minutes,
and he later died when doctors
couldn’t transplant a teenager’s heart
to his chest. A waitress in a surfer bar,
Roxyanna wore green flannel shirts
and jeans with holes in their knees,
musing one morning, I wonder
what it’s like when a traffic cop
gives a track star an enema.
Don’t know, I said, might as well
wish Bono greets you at an airport
posing as your butler after you win
a Hollywood lottery fantasy. Roxyanna
frowned, Gimme a Kleenex, Pudgy,
or I’ll shave your melon head.
I complied and then lumbered
to the cypress trees in the backyard forest,
tired of lovers’ combat, tired of being
another lame horse in Roxyanna’s stable.
David Spicer has had poems in Chiron
Review, The New Verse News, Yellow Mama,
Alcatraz, Gargoyle, Easy Street, Third
Wednesday, Reed Magazine, Santa
Clara Review, Rat’s
Ass Review, Midnight
Lane Boutique, Ploughshares, The
American Poetry Review, and
elsewhere. The author of Everybody Has a Story and five
chapbooks, he’s the former editor of raccoon, Outlaw,
and Ion Books. His latest chapbook is From
the Limbs of a Pear Tree, available
from Flutter Press.