Cowgirl

By Cindy Kelly

Almost dancing,
wears her sober tiara,
sips water from her canteen.
Counts out her courage,
realizes her poverty,
six shooters empty.
She’s still but for the wisps
strayed from tangle of loose braids,
they boogie in the wind.

 

It’s been a series
of minutes, fragments really
since train robberies &
two daisy stars.
Most juries
in quiet instants
lost pace.
She adores dimmer light,
in her head, an accordian plays,
and all her dream-ballerinas
dance to western polkas.

 

Her three badge doors,
soul mirrors and creek minnows,
luck, fate, guerilla words,
guerilla grass, guerilla
victories. Clear-headed,
Vivian pitches her tent,
ponders her tragedy of plurals,
her senses sharp, sinister,
plays her harmonica
in low key queries
under desert skies.

Published April 2007