Coming to in hours split
like fences with their nails raw.
The clots of blood they left behind.
Jelly no one wanted
on their nervous hands.
Skin like toast they turned
to hide the crusts of pain.
The sighs in curtains of their eyes
that read: "The slug of death
was here and left a trail
in tire tracks upon her naked flesh."

Coming to and crawling out.
Arms in ditches by the rails.
The shots she welcomed like the rain that
follows deserts baking in the scorching sun.
Her brothers brought a case of beer.
Played with buttons on their shirts.
Hawaiian prints like traitors to the dark
they tried to ride and surf beyond.