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All Night Woman

The midnight animals
douse themselves in regular
bouts of sickness, at carnival
jug tosses and radio
rifle relays. Coin-op condoms
pressed between big sweating
wads of small bills. The virgin
in one booth or another
is the only virgin, over and
again. Toss the ring, shout
the weight. Something to do,
fleshed-out in the country—
not so simple as all this grift.
He used to watch
men run a slit down a fish,
throw it to the river, after.
Whiskered water creature
swung upside down
from plastic twine, laughing
men cut the guts free,
loose and moving in the sun—
some they keep, for a helpless
fight. Hours it goes on
after they left, cursing wives.
Noon and drunk.
Naked kids deep
down in the mudded water,
touching up under their
beings with the hands hidden,
loose in the stringy current.
Faint glister of gnats
at their mouths—slide down 
to lose their moving itch. 
She swims naked at evening,
she sits shirtless in the trees,
alone, she feels her palms
along the booths’ shut steel
ribs. Cutoffs hung deep below
the long jewel in her navel—
she doesn’t know if she will.
He’s good, he’s bad
at once, stealing father’s truck,
the gun from the closet to poach.
Indifferent and scared of it,
when he’s used the thick money
gone, she knows she’ll care,
and that she won’t want to.
And that she’ll want to.
Posted 04/25/11
In Indiana Review, Winter 2010.
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