Dear Grady,

Dear Grady,

I am your red dress girl,

shit-man, get outta here

and all, knee flounce

kicked up in the rain and

everythin else. My last

fill, the last stop on this

highway, all prettied up

in Jean Nate after wipin

down greasy windowsills,

the day’s dirt scraped

out from under my nails,

touched up and pink,

but mostly don’t matter.

I do the way you think,

all rowdy and bendable.

I hold a lot. It’s the ugly

ones I like though since

they don’t remind me of

you none. They come on

all strong and talk like

and then nothing but


little boy in their eyes

once we’re alone, and the

whole time thinkin in

those dingy rooms with

the blinds drawn and the

hum of the ceiling fan

that I watch sometimes

till it blacks me out with

spin, that there is sun on

top of all this and I sure

hope my dead mama ain’t

watchin me right now.

She’d thrown her hands

up and wrung her hair

with too much care bout

me. I held those hands

in the end and tell her

it weren’t her fault. She

was still speakin then,

but didn’t say nothin just

fixed me in her eye and


then they seamed shut

imagin the next life I

suppose, and she started

moanin and rockin. I

guess I upset her again,

as I always did and this

way how least she’d come

to be free of me. And

you’re free of me except

like a whisper hairlash in

your eye you keep pullin

at, I’m still there, figurin

I guess you’ll come back

down this road. I’m

rememberin you lookin

at me nice that time at

Slappy’s and my dress

before it tore. Remember

Grady doncha? I’m here.

It’s okay. It’s mended

now. Yours, still and all,