She wakes early, dash pressed to her bare
temple, fractured yellow light splayed
red across her hands. Clyde rolls another
cigarette and recites the five states
bordering her breezy smile. Easy-speak
cuffs the wind and the rifle in her lap, loaded
with a rustle of skirts and the advancing
frames of a Kodak black box tableaux.
Why not now wish for wings with outstretched
arms, and such subsisting sweetness
from an overheated radiator? Her stolen rogues'
gallery sings with poised sentence and cash
for the rumble-seat. Down, down she goes: dusty
roads traversed, the law in tow, to the sound
of her laughter, rich call of a sagebrush siren.
Only this resembles pleasure and matters of grave
importance, or what goes past the pale streak
of unmarked ambition to drive with the clock,
the shots, the pall, and the dry glance of her
Gwen Wille's work has previously appeared in Philadelphia Stories, Divine Dirt Quarterly, and Willows Wept Review,and is forthcoming in Writers' Bloc.