Bridget Lowe (2016)
High spring. The sounds at their
utmost registers. I am building
a language with my bike. Shame
makes the wheels go, shame
pumps its sick jet fuel.
I am flying over tiny hills with moats
of purple flowers. My fantasy
is evidence. My fantasy is a white skull
gleaming through a bed of mulch.
I let go of the handlebars and beat
my chest with shame’s gorilla fist
until the trees get in my way.
Nancy Drew before me, Nancy Drew
behind me, Nancy Drew on all
sides of me, Lord hear my prayer.