Jan Beatty

I was pinballing/
slamming the back glass/
hitting every outlane/
triggering a ramp shot/
spinning red after years/
of running/nights/
of crashing/I wanted power over something/
anything/thought:
what would it look like/
the glistening body/cut open/
the jewels of itself/turning?
The back glass of the body/
breached? Would I come
alive in the cut/you could say seeing
my inside body/its wires &
circuits/my spiky wrist/you could say
gleeful at the sight?

I was born for betrayal—
When my mother left me in the orphanage,I invented love with strangers.  
And if it wasn’t there, I made it be there,until the crash, the revelation.
They say blues is three chords and the truth—And poetry is long-lined lies and a deep dive
into the body’s costly river.