You won't find the Queen sipping white wine at the Red Line,
or hear her voice float on a note strummed from the stage at the Heartland Café.
She doesn't take her morning coffee at Charmer's, or nibble cheese at Taste.
These places are just her painted face,
Her press-on nails, Her push-up bras, Her cans of spray-on tan.
They are the dress She wears to the ball,
the delicate china She pulls from the cupboard
when delicate company calls.
The real Queen is One Tough Chick with a scar on her lip
who steps out at night with a baggie of weed pressed beneath her breast.
She gots strong hands, stone knuckles. She can make fists when she wants to.
She'll press her belly against yours at the back of some dark bar, pull away,
and punch a tooth clean out your head. Then she'll wipe blood from your lips with her own and fix you with a gaze that says, "Baby, I'm sorry. Forgive me."
She drinks draft at the Ho, where old timers go
to tend friendships and feuds born on schoolyards.
Where the poker still pays and the bands don’t play, and
regulars still smoke
or hear her voice float on a note strummed from the stage at the Heartland Café.
She doesn't take her morning coffee at Charmer's, or nibble cheese at Taste.
These places are just her painted face,
Her press-on nails, Her push-up bras, Her cans of spray-on tan.
They are the dress She wears to the ball,
the delicate china She pulls from the cupboard
when delicate company calls.
The real Queen is One Tough Chick with a scar on her lip
who steps out at night with a baggie of weed pressed beneath her breast.
She gots strong hands, stone knuckles. She can make fists when she wants to.
She'll press her belly against yours at the back of some dark bar, pull away,
and punch a tooth clean out your head. Then she'll wipe blood from your lips with her own and fix you with a gaze that says, "Baby, I'm sorry. Forgive me."
She drinks draft at the Ho, where old timers go
to tend friendships and feuds born on schoolyards.
Where the poker still pays and the bands don’t play, and
regulars still smoke
because they’re regulars,
because they’re family,
because they’re home,
and stash their ash in tiny tins
emptied of tiny cough drops.
Her knees settle on fresh rose petals strewn
before votive velas burning in a sidewalk shrine on Rogers,
built by the strong brown hands of Luís, el Jalisqueño, en honor de su apá.
(te extraño, mi apá,
ya no luches más,
que te cuiden los ángeles,
que descanses en paz)
Llegaron juntos, de mojado, quince años atrás.
She roosts in the rafters of St. Henry's Church and
sails down Devon nestled in the back seat of Sanjay Patel’s cab
to the gates of Rosehill, where She stands guard beside the sad-eyed stone angels
who forever keep, but never judge, the grateful and ungrateful dead.
because they’re family,
because they’re home,
and stash their ash in tiny tins
emptied of tiny cough drops.
Her knees settle on fresh rose petals strewn
before votive velas burning in a sidewalk shrine on Rogers,
built by the strong brown hands of Luís, el Jalisqueño, en honor de su apá.
(te extraño, mi apá,
ya no luches más,
que te cuiden los ángeles,
que descanses en paz)
Llegaron juntos, de mojado, quince años atrás.
She roosts in the rafters of St. Henry's Church and
sails down Devon nestled in the back seat of Sanjay Patel’s cab
to the gates of Rosehill, where She stands guard beside the sad-eyed stone angels
who forever keep, but never judge, the grateful and ungrateful dead.
