HOW DARLA LOVED
Stephen W. Brodie
those midnight drives down dusty gravel roads
lit by the moon and the glowing red embers
of a Marlboro, snuck from her father's sock
drawer while he was tending to the horses
or bringing the chickens in for the night, she
could always count on one of the boys from
town to bring a bottle of Jack Daniels or a
case of beer, she had grown to like the taste:
the beer, the cigarettes, the boys, the freedom
that small town girls have to steal after the sun
goes down, she'd laugh and run naked through
the cornfields, past old Mr. Tatum's barn, and
plunge herself deep into the cool dark waters
of the swimming hole where she'd be joined
moments later by a group of drunk naked boys,
yelling and splashing about, trying to get closer
to her, each squirming for a feel of her smooth
round bottom or breasts, full for a girl of fourteen
