Tuesday, November 15, 2011

The Prodigal Student

Once she
danced fervently with sweaty
men, pounded hard liquor
in loud places
slept late in ashy,
unwashed sheets
blew smoke halos from stained fingers.
Drove fast, left the scarred red
Camino in a muddy ditch,
Mardi Gras beads dangling
from the rear-view mirror.
Anointed that wormy chick's
head with a beer bottle
flew from the roadhouse.

Now she limps, slightly,
paints her nails bruised purple
scowls down at her desk
through long, black bangs,
scribbles furiously.

She’s in the front row.
When she leans forward
in the college English class,
angels exhale.


  1. Wow. This is fantastic! That last line ... nice.

  2. Thanks-- posting poetry scares me. I won't do it often, I promise!

  3. Second chances - love it! Great poem, thanks for being brave enough to share!

  4. Thanks, A.B. She's a composite, but she's all over our campus.

  5. Wow, Melanie. This one speaks to me in so many ways. We're not our pasts, but we are composed of it, and often that composition is fuel for art. Breathtaking, that one. Thanks for sharing it with us!

  6. Thanks, sweetie, there may be a tad of this girl in many of us!
    Speaking as a reformed "bad" girl. :-)