Ramona the Fallen
Crooked, rectangular eyes.
The stench of the horses
we knit ourselves to. Her ears
clotted with gold/diamond circles
she tugged until her scabs opened
their mouths. Hurling down her
shining silver pony, she broke
the fence with her collar-bone --
the poles banging together
with a sound like wooden bells.
Faint stars where she went into
herself with an exacto knife, a stapler:
I break everything to make it fit.