Oxnard

I wrote this poem for Jennifer
but she didn’t live long enough to read it.
She killed herself one night
because she was tired of the shower curtain rod
falling to the ground
and revealing her nakedness
to the men
who never paid their
share for beer
or abortions.

She died
while on the rag
and was found laying on a bed of receipts
and a newspaper cutout of the local rodeo was stuck to the bottom of her knee.
Her phone had not rang in over two weeks.

If only the skinny ones
had the soul and laughter of the fat ones
there would be less people found
with slit wrists
in lonely bathrooms
And every tree
that stands as tall as a hard on
would have a declaration of love
carved on its middle.
No more lipstick.
No more glitter.
The tanning salons can become mortuaries
and we will sell what we can’t
burn.