What Lynch Sold Me About L.A.

By Rachelle King

Cradled head
absent from my hands
Backs aren’t congenial:
bleach sometimes forgets
leftover cranberry sully
on white flags.

Razor-tongued Zapatistas
perching on street corners:
dried mud puddles descending
rings of ragged deep oceans
conversing in rapid flutters:
silencio
(scorned flaunt relentlessly);
“Manifest Destiny singed my heartstrings!”

Concave chip,
silkens with wear,
“Excuse me,
please pass the sandpaper.”
Foolish,
letting you indulge
showing off my flaws
exploiting their cause.

This rusty pin itches.
Too deep to pull out,
twirling it like daffodil stems
between my fingers
dried blood tendrils
flake,
gliding windy breath
finds floor and begs:
“Please, don’t leave me here.”

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