So what if my handwriting is too fanciful for my age?
Out here, wind sneaks through a barroom door
and ranch hands blow in, clearing tables faster
than you can swipe a wet rag before the next round –
out here, a girl needs to write her name forwards
and backwards on the bathroom wall, filling
every gulch between picked-apart flowers and hearts shot
through with arrows. She has to hold her own, loop
under and around talk of backroads, flatbeds and boys
that go nowhere in this valley that floods every
hundred years with love-letters it scrawls, to itself.