an ode to a girl wearing red
shoes, but it got fucked up
along the way by reports
of pink slime supplementing
our ground beef like packing
socks in your crotch to add
girth to your limp meat. Then
a Presidential candidate
yacks it up in the Sunshine State
about building colonies on Mars
while a black kid is shot armed
with Skittles & an ice tea. Because
we don’t wear guns in rooms where
teenagers learn, my state Senator
says I am working in the last mass
murder empowerment zone.
Then my aunt leaves a note
and dies. In a home. Not her
home. She writes, “No visitation.
No memorial. Just think of me.”
Which I am, though I’m also
thinking about the girl in the red
shoes, and what she did to save
that three legged dog dodging
cars in the street. But then Carlos
tells me Fabian was jumped. He
says this giggling. His brother.
Broken orbital. He points to his eye.
Broken cheekbone. Splattered nose.
Aaron Brossiet has poems previously published in The Mac Guffin, Jet Fuel Review, Drunk Monkeys, Sky Magazine, Mudfish Magazine, and Redneck Review. He earned his M.F.A. from the University of Texas El Paso. You can find him on twitter @AaronBrossiet and instagram @aalawbro.