My New Friend

In a photograph, her father’s cap
is jaunty, his beard wild. A hooded falcon

poses on his outstretched hand
and he is everything you want your father

to be. My new friend doesn’t wear makeup.
Her feet are tiny, tattooed. She’s broke,

but spent a whole summer driving
the craggy roads of Iceland. She says that

in Reykjavík, they drink until dawn, sometimes
after. It’s normal there. In Minnesota, she met

a fly fisherman in the woods, and they
made love in the river while timber wolves

skulked nearby. She builds dollhouses, spending
hundreds of dollars on tiny chairs, a fireplace

with pasteboard flames, inlaid parquet floors
for dining rooms where there will be no meals.

My new friend spent a weekend eating Egyptian
blue lotus in Joshua Tree. The night closed

in around her but she wasn’t scared. This
was when she dated a movie star. You know

his name, but I can’t tell you outright. My new
friend makes my old friends jealous. They call

her a liar. We were sprawled on the rug,
watching television, mooning over River Phoenix

when the fetus she didn’t know was curled inside
of her quit its dying and she writhed,

wailing. I led her to the bathroom floor,
and as she lay on the cold tile, the low moans

streaked from her mouth like crows.