[Once there was a girl who believed time would carry]
Folks home as a horse does a child through a forest.
They say she grew ill or left town because of twelve things.
They dragged the river for her combed the forest but nothing
Came crashing out. Whatever the reasons were swim
From pursed mouths like spray from a fountain
Arcing through a shape that was there once.
We remember the statue but the soldiers they took it
Like everything else. Rainy nights drunks see it still in the square
Holding one hand in the air and the other to her
Chest like there’s something there not made of metal.
Those storms there’s no static no rain-smell
In morning no horse to carry no child through no forest.
Them milk-white drunks they don’t know.
One swears in those twisters there’s a kid crosslegged
In the funnel’s center, where it’s full still. That child
She sits still as a statue, mumbles ok, ok, spits.
Warm blood from her stupid teeth. Smiles big.
The thing about statues is crows shit on them
Their noses go missing. Someday nobody remembers
Who they was of. The thing about statues is they get took
For granted or in wars for paving. If they survive,
They’re museumed and no one can touch.
I say if she comes back and speaks she’ll say the reasons
Are nothing on us. The reasons half the girl she
Nailed under the floor, half the girl she became.
Half the fountain they erected to show where she wasn’t.
Them nickels kids throw in the water around her
Arcing just how veins branch under a good knife.
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