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.