Friend Rockstar

By Kara Trojan

Friend Rockstar,

             Listen, yield to a robust think-tank,

             earlobes skidding against wheat and grain.

Terrible story, yes, what happened to that little girl.
Sterile teddy nightgowns weeping in the squad car windows.
Teacher – Teacher, do you harken my yodels for grace?

             I’ve never been maternal.

             Put the game on. Abortion.

             That’s what I’m about.

             Grab a bra. Sling some weight.

             That’s what I’m about.

Some housefly wings on a weathered corn cob.
Some downhome, homegrown twang for those fancy, fussy britches.

             Muddy workboots. Sweat-soaked collars.

             That’s what I’m about.

Him done made me read, sir.
What sacraments did we write today?

             I can still remember my first broken bone.

             I can still remember my first broken hymen.

                            That could be what this is all about.

Mary, Mary, you can be contrite,

             so knife – so critter – so laze – so stalked.

Who fertilized your seeds? Who reared your sprouts?

             Cockle shells and silver bells, honey,

             can’t grow up

             to be pretty little maids all in a row.

Sterile teddy nightgowns – green bells in gaseous gardens.
Friend Rockstar, you may have to sleep.
This restless harbor is a shivering anecdote spilled from a belly,

             a vast, deep cavern with love notes written in milk.

Your fried, stern smile was a flaking fingernail adjacent to
the crack in the flowerpot.