There are turtles swimming beneath the trees
She smokes, flame-red hair curled tight to her skull, a cap of chemicals
“Come close,” she breathes, and a rose tattoo bleeds from wrinkled tits
The old ones within wait for death, she waits with them.
“I wanted it where everyone could see it,” she rasps, turns, the tattoo climbs her neck
Wraps its thorns, its leaves, its deathly petals, nothing to see here.
Every morning in the stolid summer she walks near-naked, watching, waiting.
Roads on Her Face 