For Her, the Habit Necessitated Turning Tricks

For her, the habit
necessitated turning tricks.
By the tail of the
trail to the fix,
she’d be clammy as the
underside of Oprah’s tits.
Her children and health
incinerating in the fringe
of the eclipse.

Life had spilled from its purse
across a motel bed:
lipstick, birth control, syringe.
You can’t re-use lipstick
off tissues or skin.
Ditto the rest from your blood.
The soul a hungry mouth,
the drug feeding it dick.


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