25 March 2016 on Poetry   Tags:

The babysitter
came with a suitcase
full of crap we
liked: old clothes,
naked Barbies with
limbs scratched
by some unknown
girl. We ate TV
dinners; mine rubber
corn, burnt square
of chocolate, spongy
metallic rectangle.


At The Camelot
I would eat
the entire prime
rib on its bed
of soggy toast
before taking
my ice cream cone
into the bar
with its full suit
of armor, drunks
I’d recognize
in daylight.


I left the charred
fat in a little
wall, left
the camper
and walked into
the firefly-packed
dark green dark and
no one looked
for me.


Julia Story is the author of Post Moxie (Sarabande Books), winner of the Ploughshares 2010 John C. Zacharis First Book Award, and a chapbook, The Trapdoor (dancing girl press). Her recent work can be read at Sixth Finch, H_NGM_N, and Gulf Coast. She is 2016 recipient of a Pushcart Prize and lives in Somerville, MA with her husband and Dachshund, Edie.

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