Poetry of Issue #7        Page 9

Wayward

The mother ruins her daughter
with handbag inspections
for hidden condoms or cigarettes,
panty inspections.

Red-eyed, the TV droning,
the mother waits with Johnny Carson
in a darkened room.
The mother threatens to send her

to a home for wayward girls
for breaking curfew,
her voice breaking. The girl
smashes her fist through

the glass panel of a door,
needs stitches on her wrist.
Arms crossed, the mother watches,
until her daughter swallows

a green and black pill, a girl
tempted to sell the Librium
in the street, no matter living without it.
The girl is a ripped dress,

bingeing on maraschino cherries,
sweetness an unfamiliar taste.
She loves the mother.
She loves more the red.