On her dimpled left ass cheek was
the inked word ‘Rashid’. I saw it
while we changed to hit the club
and she saw me,
The permascowl softened the smallest bit
and she said, that’s my son’s name.
I was surprised: I was learning
we keep no familiar binds but
the pimps and hustlers like
the one in the next room
kept for business. A few inches
below the name a circular
scar puckered recognizable
to me as a bullet hole. Maybe
because molly she added,
he died, then pulled acidwash
up, over her backside. The small talk ceased.
She turned around to face me, face back on,
announced: now let’s
go get that
©2022 Mari Deweese All rights reserved.
Under the influence of both the River and irreverence, Mari ‘Diz/zy’ Deweese lives and sings and writes of what she’s learned on the rougher, sometimes slicker, side of the American dream in Memphis, TN. When she isn’t busy selling whatever sells these days, she releases her work through the blessed small presses, and her artist pages on social media. Her third collection of verse is imminently forthcoming from Nixes Mate Books.