A Trailer in the Woods
She worked the late shift at the Jr. Food Mart
on the Mississippi State line. All night,
standing on bad feet, a .38 on her hip,
banging a cash register for minimum wage,
my grandmother never complained.
Finally, she had her own place—a Nomad
trailer salvaged from her third marriage
in the deepest woods she could find,
pines thick and standing in all directions.
No more men, she vowed, no more broken jaws,
fingers turning blue after she was beaten
then locked out in the snow. A woman
who lived alone was easy prey but not her.
Nothing made her happier than three beers
drunk at the kitchen table, walking outside
before the sun came up and firing her pistol
into the raw morning air. She let them know
a woman’s trailer was a castle too, that cordite
smelled better than perfume. She loudly
told them all she was still alive.