Luxuria
The grown-ups called her Boots. Stilettoed. Brash.
Hayna Valley girl. All skin-on-bone.
Afternoons, impassive as a stone,
she’d strut downtown to trade her time for cash
from randy college boys. As rumours flew, it
made me perk my ears. Living next door,
I learned new words like incest, jailbait, whore.
As for her real name, I never knew it.
And then she moved. The Amy Vanderbilts
sang hallelujahs. Thanked their lucky stars.
Boots could not belong. She came from Mars,
thumbing her nose at coffee klatches, quilts,
silk stockings, and the picket fences of
Earth’s fond contrivances passed off as love.
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