Rusty city, jalopy-strewn, I never said I didn’t love you. Don’t
believe the copper moon—time has tarnished her, and I

was having a bad night. You’re sneer-lipped with busted bridges, tin
sheet shacks drunk on wind. Who could help but shrink from that

face, freckled with red bolts and blood stains? How cute
those freckles used to be. Now they look like liver spots. People

are talking. Lately, you’ve been gnashing your steel teeth at strangers.
Shame, shame. And are those tears I see, streaming orange now

down your rain-slapped cheek? You’ve got to toughen up, love.
Nobody’s what they used to be. Forgive me: ten years ago,

I dug a six foot hole in your gut and buried a giggle inside, where
you’ll never find it. Forgive me: I didn’t mean to leave you that way. 

Rochelle Hurt was forged from iron ore in the steel mills of Youngstown, Ohio, but she now lives in North Carolina. She is a graduate of the MFA program at UNC Wilmington, and a recipient of awards from Poetry International, Arts & Letters, Hunger Mountain, and the Jentel Artist Residency program. More of her poetry and prose can be found in Versal, Cream City Review, Cincinnati Review, New Delta Review, and Bellingham Review.