Poems from

The devil pries open my red hibiscus like skirts. On the crack
           corner those transvestite hookers won’t quit
competing with my garden’s

barbed and carnal tongues . . .

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I told the serial killer he could feed his Venus flytrap Spam
           the summer I worked the outdoor lawn

and garden center. I’d known to say this since fifteen, with my mother telling me
           all men who ask young girls directions
from their white vans are murderers . . .

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