She came to town in a blaze of glory
to do me down; out of the Dutchess and the Dirtwater Fox saloon she walks.  She points provocatively at me.

Standing with my left hand on my hip
and my right hand flagging my welcome
whip, in my black thong with silver SS monogrammed climbing the crack of
Rebellion Pass, shaking in my lavender boots.

She polishes the dust off of her tin star on her left breast, licking her lips from lust.

But like a western soap opera, the answers would only come to those who waited and watched.

"Who shot the sheriff!" she yells in code,
with her holster strap-on packing a six-shot load.  The town heeds at attention.

Tell you this story, shot her down in a blaze of glory.  She left town the next day, her long golden hair dancing in the wind, galloping back to Dodge.  The horses sighed, sad at her exit, wouldn't touch their hay.  She left a lady in tears.

I broke off a branch and waved it in the air of the awesome affair.

All you have to do is let me be your storyteller down the dusty road of enlightenment. I am a woman who has ingratiated into a blaze of glory.

Copyright 2006 Sage Sweetwater, firebrand lesbian novelist