by Jessica Otto
The lady is an iron vulture, a
drunken shadow teetering
on the edge of the shore line,
voted most likely to trip
over a horseshoe crab.
She was throttled and hung
from a phallic cactus when
the stock market crashed
for the second time.
No one stayed around for her
resurrection, no one
watched her catch a crow in mid
take off, stick two fingers down
its throat and pop her eyeball
out of its broken beak.
She kept the noose for its neo-hippie look
and moved into an alley off of
Capitol Street. Last I saw of her
she was feeding the stray cats
slightly green slices off her right
arm and passing out cigarettes
to the working girls.
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