She named me after Kim Novak.
A scruffy pumpkin face kid
Cradling a cheap doll, dissatisfied already at two.
Stuck with a sullen old woman
Hair as black and unruly as my own
Cheekbones high as corn stalks in the middle of summer
A nose that overtook her face hiding what was supposed to be a chin
And skin swarthy as the corners of her root cellar.
The stench of fired chicken clung to her faded print dress.
August heat tumbled down her roof.
Prairie thunder ate the paint from the sides of the house.
Red rain filled the bathtub sitting outside by the garage.
Fireflies pitched and bobbed through her squash.
The sound of the crickets drowned the din of the electric fan
Ants danced on her plates.
Beanstalks endlessly chattered, as I threw stones at her crows
And Kim Novak stayed safely locked inside that black and white TV box
Kim's spiritual exploration has taken her into meditation, bullwhip cracking, and yoga. Her work appears in the UN-urban Poetry anthology, Green Room Confessionals, Unlikely Stories
, and Clean Sheets
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