Little Women

by Polly Conway

Author’s note: The poems in this series were created using found language from spam emails.

 

Malleable: the architecture

of wrath. My posterior left

 

a dent in the divan. It’s gonna linger

when I die, take me

 

to Bhutan, drape me in madras,

spread auburn Aspen leaves

 

on my grave. That’s ambiance.

I’ll cooperate, babe, like a burlesque

 

routine, but smaller. Don’t skew

the sway, canary. Jo took

 

the tramway to the city, Amy learned

French. Who wins the good

 

boy in the end? The ending

is lame; all crimes are deniable

 

(Be cognizant that if I

bawl, it’s out of rueful detestation, not

 

some other thing.) A loosestrife

is a flower.       Believe that