poem: there is always a lost generation

she is sitting with her face in the window
watching the country blur
into Monet and his outcast friends—
she is always afraid,
if she blinks
she will miss the important moment
when the universe pauses
and catches
her breath.

the country falls louder and longer when
when she picks up culture
and tries it, putting her tongue
into strange men,
into their habits and customs and old
family dysfunctions, the hardwood floors
saying y’all and hey
dear and later nothing.

they call her
tourist—traveler—
her mother said she was a fucking disgrace
and she should not come home
unless she promises
to put her mind into a chemical balance and stop
puking red pills into toilet water.

she thought—
I will just go to one more place
and then I will stop
and I will keep stopping
and myself will finally
catch up.

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