Her Life as a Poem
Her big-boned spirit
was a fine-spun sprouting
of prairie brome,
threaded through with engine oil.
Her home was a rickety refuge
for wayward cats.
Upon her tangled porch
poems grew in small pots
muddled with the stale air
of Maui Wowie.
She wrote on the back of her mouth
with cigarette smoke.
Her poems were the rain-filled footprints,
of Jack Kerouac.
She had pronouns after her name.
Her fame became legendary
but only between the gaps in her thoughts.
Her love for possums and racoons
was almost romantic.
Some still write about her ghost
as if she still lived.
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