Southern Girl Sicko

I’m living in Virginia, 

the beginning of the south,

the childstar of the confederacy.

I’m putting worms and swampwater into buckets

and dumping them on the heads of 

northern boys who know mud as well as they know space.

I’ve mowed the king down with my horse,

his legs are morbid and twisted like L-shaped pipes

as he moans in the dark while I hop off the saddle.

My feet are bare and covered in gravel,

my dress is falling off my shoulders,

exposing a breast as I kick the ruler,

nothing but a man when his crown falls down the ravine.

He weeps harder as I remove my 

spear from its sheath.

I step on his chest, 

hundreds of pebbles covered in my dead skin,

scratching him through his shirt.

I hold the spear above my head 

as if I am splitting a log. 

I yell at the man I toppled over,

“Thus always to tyrants.”