Pocahontas And The Boxcars by David Spicer

Three friends and I met a beauty
named Pocahontas somewhere
in Sweden, land of few porcupines
and bumblebees, in a boy scout tent
by a river of no shadows or reflections.
A tall blonde who wore nothing but
black pearls and a feather, she
announced herself to us, her prisoners
who wished to conceal our names.
Pocahontas advertised as an escort
who would serve venison, preserve
secrets, and proclaim our lives
accidents without moral compasses.
Your souls need bleaching,
or they’ll be Satan’s loopholes,
and the sun will frighten you with heat
that you’ll pretend doesn’t burn.
We followed her to a grove,
and after we marveled at her body,
she allowed us each to make a wish.
Of course none of us remembered it
and learned we couldn’t leave with our
boots, credit cards, or underwear.
Now, my ears hum, I’m broke,
and all I do is roll a pair of dice
that Pocahontas presented each of us,
waiting for the twelve straight boxcars
she promised we’d roll one day, if we
ever stopped thinking with our cocks.

David Spicer

Memphian David Spicer has poems in Yellow Mama, Slim Volume, The Laughing Dog, In Between Hangovers, Bad Acid Laboratories, Inc., Dead Snakes, and in A Galaxy of Starfish: An Anthology of Modern Surrealism (Salo Press, 2016). He is the author of one collection of poems and four chapbooks.

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