White Heat
poem by Robin Richardson
Making out with Madonna in the back of my father’s Cadillac,
Mineola Elementary banner bowing overhead; pale
as our just bleached mushroom cuts. She finds a pistol in the glove
box, squeezes with a match-thin finger so the morning moves
a little faster; fast the way our tape deck speeds past earworms
as we scan for something new. Her belly is so flat. Her laugh
is driving grade-two girls to lose their cool, undo the latches
on their insect traps. There is an earthworm in her skirt’s hem.
There is a patch of grass below the dash that warms her teal
painted toes. She knows so much.
She knows we’re in a time machine so when I crack
the door to leave it’s night, and she’s an old song.
——–
Robin Richardson