If this photo could speak it would slur, it would spit. Framed in hard edges, black and white, her face a fight, a riot of broken lines in dirt worn cheeks. Taken, the night she charged into every rowdydow honky-tonk west of Warsaw, looking for that mean old mister Pop-Pop. Her hair fist-knotted into the bog-slosh of tears and mud tangled into some long night, last call, whiskey, beer, fuck it all. Her mouth a slow drawl yodel-ladee song and dance of handcuffed backtalk in that cattle-dusted back lot where she found him with her, the other woman. In the photo her eyes are closed as if she's crying or is about to. Captured in a quick white flash— shot when she wasn't even looking.
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