You Can’t Take Her Picture

A fast stroke of red soot
smeared in haste
across white fences

simmer over low heat
to bring out her natural sugars
or she leaves a bitter coating in your mouth
like an unripe persimmon

she’s the burnt out ends of cloudy skies

she’s laced up and ready to fight

she’s deerskin wrapped tight
around sharp flint

she’s a thin cymbal crashing far away
like a dusty moth you’re not sure is there

you can shout
but in a room full of wounded soldiers,
why should she care?