She loses her virginity down the garden,
in the onion weed
under the crabapple.
She leaves town for the city;
reappears on national TV.
The freckle astride her left breast
is a partially developed third nipple,
she explains, reaching for her ankle.
One morning, cloven hoof prints
pock the planter on her
sixth floor balcony.
In her defence,
she elects not to swear on the Bible.
She lies on her bed
watching the light babble.
The grey afternoon returns
to the suburbs, the provisional;
the crabapple gone to infill,
the onion weed still hanging in there
between the rusted tricycle
and clawed bath full of bottles
the current tenants mean to recycle.