Trixie

Trixie hated eyes, the concept of them, and the fact

That they were always attached to other people.

She could feel the way they sorted and categorized her,

Pinning her between “plain-faced” and “maybe a boy?”

Her hair mushroomed a halo around her head,

And she kept black, thick-framed glasses on her face

Because poking herself in the eye every morning

Seemed barbaric.

She sat next to nobody at Miner’s only bus stop,

Her town small enough to have one way in

And one way out.

It was two a.m., and her phone

Was an homage to the “too little, too late.”

Trixie, please. Please answer. I am so sorry. I love you, baby.

Her mother’s flair for the sentimental like a random outbreak

of a dormant disease. It almost worked. Almost.

But how could that woman claim love when her whole life was work

And men? Her mom lived half her life in ugly white sneakers,

Cleaning off old men and listening to old women refuse to die.

The other half was with “Tim,” who really could be anyone

On any given evening. The type of addiction Trixie almost

Wished more fatal like a final dose of fentanyl.

At least I could mourn her, she thought.

But she moved the thought out as quickly as it

Had moved in.

She replaced it with Derek

who had stolen his brother’s car, fled

Raleigh and was heading to a state

Where he’d never been to meet a girl

He’d have to sort and categorize

And who was willing to be anyone

At this point, as long as she wasn’t

Her mother.