her voice shrieks
a blues shout
ripped from her guts,
a starving animal
that claws her throat.
Spawned in the hollow
of white-trash suburbs
that raged in her ribs,
its hunger numbed
by a needle,
nursed on Southern Comfort,
shivering, sweating,
bleeding into my skin
it bawls
a romantic lament
"what else can you
count on?"
Nothing.
The voice
screams and slashes
cries
itself to sleep each night
forsaken
when Janis nodded off
never came down
left it snared
in the tape's loop
to wail alone.
(c)Serena Fusek 2009
published in Skipping Stones, vol VI
Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA
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