shot glass
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Rachel Crawford

Page 1 | 2


Poetry whispers in back rooms now,
carries messages, studies maps,
traces escape routes with her breath.
She prays with her eyes open,
makes love in the dark,
smokes every cigarette like it's her last.
She slinks into the party late,
sits with her back to the wall, walks home
with her hand on the pistol in her purse.
Poetry remembers, recreates the scene,
wills herself not to take the capsule
from her pocket, crack it between her teeth,
let silence drool from the corners of her mouth.