Kristy Bowen

spoil

July again and the girls drop one by one.
Fuchsias spreading lewd and loud
over the lawn and no one getting past it.
Their anatomical structure gives them away.
Their yes, yes. The chemistry that makes
them taste like sugar and laudanum.
Vodka and strawberries.

            A dark haired girl
watches from the window. Her name
is Anne. Her name is Sarah. She
and her sisters crowd themselves
beneath their mother's skirt and cry.
Their tongues are ransom notes
written in the finest cursive.
Later, they'll sing:

Betsy's in the tree and she won't come down.
She won't come down.