True Story Magazine

She reads what any woman has a right to know.
Reads what silver-anniversaried women
from Fargo and Arkadelphia read:
the truth of cowboys, cars,
Avon ladies gone wild.

Sunday anklets hang from recliner
in a half-cocked sway.
Like a lady who should know better.
Like that one in “Doubt Rises Over Dallas”
or that one who was so friendly with Jesus.

Naked lips churn a breeze onto True Tales
of Romance, worthy of any holy day.
And corner tears make their exit
when, at the end,
He tipped his hat; he’ll come again.

She can’t help but see herself there at the tomb
and the racetrack
one of a throng of Maries waiting at the finish.
Eager to meet the arms of a well-chiseled creed,
willing to believe again.