by Kylie McQuarrie
Lime green turkeys peel themselves
from my pioneer skirt, squawk into the sky, and lime
green sweat smears my homemade bloomers.
Sister Richards, who saved me from heat stroke in July,
seems to be living in a lime green jello salad. She
grins at me through jiggling gelatinous walls. She
tastes like the dish soap we poured into the Sweetwater
to scrub the salt from our bonnets, artificial lime tang
rising from the river, smell of firecrackers smoldering in
green Wyoming grass.
