Bitches bring whistles, not guns
to neighborhoods, with four-pawed
long-haired bitches in the back
of Pilots who wish to lick
six year-olds good-bye
for the day, hope for walks
before they wag their packs
back home at 3. Lady Bitches
record, chat, encourage lunch,
smile. One proclaims no anger
at dudes, leaves windows down
even as she sees the threats
and lock doors. She leaps
to fuckin bitch by being so empty
of madness she drives him to it.
With bullets he wishes were his fist
he kisses the fuckin bitch good
night, hissin with piss that her cower
was inadequate, his power
unacknowledged. He shows her.
In this world all good
bitches ride bullets to heaven.
Michelle DeRose lives and writes in Grand Rapids, Michigan. She is a poet and a mother; her son was once six years old, too.