Edie

Her skin of powdered rice paper
the scent of rotting orchids,
a drug-induced Noh dancer with
slow-writhing limbs akimbo-

silver-gilded girl of the moment
at the factory that turned out
Monroe silk screens, and porn
to the drone of a refrigerator,

from asylum to the Big Apple,
the apple of her father's eye
and of his desires, she'd sleep
among the gay lovers, pretty boys

with erotic names of exotic birds,
knowing she was safe for a while
as they quarreled amongst themselves-

who'd bring her chocolate shakes,
and chauffeur their princess
to her doctor's for injections
(she was too much a lady to do it herself)

until her fingertips became match-heads
setting fire to hotel rooms,
flailing from inside a closet
while bellboys stole her furs-

face of a comatose junkie drawing deep
on filter-less cigarettes
(she wasn't afraid). And yet, what deeds
have you, Edith, what deeds?

But wasn't she fabulous! remembering
back when she and Suky spent trips
screaming from an open convertible
through the San Marcos Pass, their
bright scarves trailing like kite tails

in the same wind she'd ride her roan
along the spine ridge of Rancho Laguna
with no sense of dominion, and the land
with its wild fires that went on forever,

where the ashes of her brothers
and their self-possessed
and possessing father of eight
had been far-flung blown, and one day,
so too would hers, in the valley of Santa Inez.