She gulps milk straight from the carton.
Her gun stays barely holstered, safety off.
She wears neither bra nor sunscreen
nor seatbelt. In the feature of my life,
she has appeared in only a few frames,
but key scenes all. A real character. One I don’t
know so well. I call her by her last name
or handles like Bitch and Warden and Want.
When the sun sets, we meet east of town,
furthest from the fading light, and turn
and face across a sea of rutted mud.
And though her eyes are hid, I know their burn
and know their anger as surely as my own
and when her heart beats, I too feel its blood.