Dino from Pennsylvania

Dino from Pennsylvania

A body of pleasure
in a white-tight
bodice.
A velvet choker
poked
with diamonds.
A green feather boa
slipped
between her thighs.
Fingers sleuthing
a cigarette
and a bottle of gin.

Dino’s portrait,
one of hundreds
painted by her deceased
husband,
hangs
in a hotel
in Jerome, Arizona.

He’d met her
in his bar
in Scranton, Pennsylvania
left his wife
and children
and taken her West.

After he died,
Dino drank
their savings.
She walked her dog
alone
under
the Arizona sun.

The cliff-clinging town
holds
their memories,
their misfires,
ghost voices
of the Yavapai
and copper veins
run dry.

One afternoon,
when the sun
was so hot
it melted the tar
on Hampshire Avenue,
no one saw or heard
her slip
and boulder
bounce
through mesquite
to the bottom
of the ravine.

Three days later
she was declared
a missing
person.

The coyotes found her first.
The police used
the vultures’
circling wings
as guides.

Now there is a fence
along the opening
in the
road
above the
ditch
where Dino died.

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