Carrie Magness Radna 


Luckily his spell of love on her  
lasted only a minute  
because she soon recognized
its numerous bullshit layers  
when he made her sell drugs
in downtown Cincinnati.  

She never had a mother 
who taught her to sharpen her knives 
and nails before they would dig for food, 

and her father never told her 
to wear her Wonder Woman costume  
underneath her chic work blazer,  

and he snarled: “Hey, whatssup girly girl! 
Show off some more skin— 
so the druggies could get their hooks 
on the merchandise  
if they’re all staring at you.” 

She, an acolyte and true believer
of Lifetime Television, 
knew that true love didn’t result 
from illegal acts of vengeance, 
and, thanks to these shows, 
she kept a knife in her cowboy boot. 

‘Cause she wasn’t going to die 
in these streets selling wares of meth 
& pills; big cities never did give her 
a thrill—if she got out of there, 
she’ll tiptoe back to Texas 

but she left him two souvenirs: 
a bloody, deep slash in  
one of his perfect pecs, 
the same ones that first lit 
her interest in him, 
and another in his side, 
which snuffed him out 

all because 
he said, 
“You’re nothing to me
but a candy hooker.” 

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