When she reeked of distraction, a dozen fools
set out to decant her childhood. 

Wearing that cheapest of her grandfather’s cologne, 
pheromones, she traveled with a herd of guardian angels, 

who stood at the end of her bed
and watched. Some masturbating. 

Some just curious about her proven technique. 
Slicing through sunlight to reach the night, 

she fenced with Satan. Breathed
with sunlungs. Dicing up her name, 

she married once or twice or
you know. Choosing green fondant 

to cover her burnt cake, she filed
her flops with a judge. 

Oh sure, she winked and wore a hood
of would and should. Her obituary didn’t mention 

she was an easy girl. A piece of ass. 
Or that she’d turned their sugar canes to fuel. 

Kandie St. Germain's the author of Closet Drama (Bear Star Press 2001), and her poems have most recently appeared in Willow Springs, By&By Poetry, and A Bad Penny Review.