Sarah Wampler CC
We hawk bottled water to motocross bros
who kick up the sediment when they walk
by wet-caked with dust—mother coached us
to say the word osmosis over and over, to thrust
cone shaped paper cups into the crowd.
Instead, we balance them on our noses like beaks.
It’s so hot.
The men wear thick jackets with neon piping;
REO Speedwagon blasting, baby I can’t fight
this feeling anymore—We are still girls,
you and I, blonde and skinny legged, unfiltered,
full of large particles and debris. Like, but so unlike
the biker babes with their bleached hair and tight stomachs,
their cans of Miller light, and Marlboro reds.
August hangs blue and plastic. It’s too hot to stay here.
Let’s go out to the track, watch the way the tires
fling: imagine we’re inside a cloud, the loud
whir of transmissions, smell of burning motor oil, our fingers
around the chain link fence. Separated from it
as we will be from each other, as we will be.
we can ride off over those low hills, jump
and mount the sky as Northern Pintails, that we’re not held
in place by tarping, ropes and anchors, by this girlhood,
cresting above us like a hand, ready to fall.
Sara Moore Wagner is the Cincinnati based author of the chapbook Hooked Through (Five Oaks Press, 2017). Her poetry has appeared in many journals and anthologies including Glass Poetry Journal, Gulf Stream, and Gigantic Sequins, among others, and is forthcoming in journals like Western Humanities Review and Pretty Owl Poetry. She has been nominated for a Pushcart prize, and for Best of the Net. www.saramoorewagner.com.
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