Cut-a-Bitch pulls up in a boxy burgundy sedan
down the block from The Burn Queen’s house
where it’s not too hard to step up on her desk,
pop the screen out, crank the window, hop down,
dart the motion-sensor light, and slide into the dark
where her friend sits idling, headlights off, radio on,
brass knuckles drumming on the wheel, calling out
to the feather-boa’d, tiara’d silhouette approaching:
Get in, loser: We’re going back to the future of our 40s
to find out if we can love our exiled parts. We’re gonna
cruise down to the east side, trawl the strip for our
child selves, and buckle them safely in the back seat
before our razor blades, Zippo lighters, spiky chokers,
and rusty-hooked barbs come to scoop them up.