Amy Susan Wilson lives in Shawnee, Oklahoma and has recently published in Southern Women’s Review, Dead Mule, Red River Review, Cyber Soleil Journal, Red Dirt Review, Crosstimbers, Southern Literary Review,and in other similar journals. Amy is at work on a novel, The Fine Life of Mrs. Delbert L. Smith, which explores the first female attorney in Oklahoma to practice oil and gas law.  Non-fiction writing interests include Senior, over age fifty-five beauty pageants, and the pay day loan industry as it intersects with spirituality. Amy lives in Shawnee, Oklahoma with her family and three rescue dogs: Matthew, Pedro, and Snowball. She holds an MFA from Columbia University.

The following poem first appeared in Volume 11, Crosstimbers (Spring-Summer, 2011).

Doing the Hula

Don Ho, Hawaiian Breeze,

whisks her from this living room of green shag,

sensible sofa covers

to sandy white beaches with

girls swiveling hips, jiggling away

Just like Laki-Laki at Don Ho’s side.

Pall Mall clutched tight as a rosary,

sweet tea pressed into the other.

With each gulp and crank of vinyl

Eunice becomes Lead Hula Gal

her gray permed poodle hair

glossy-black; waist length.

All the men want her.

Don Ho blows a kiss

into her ear

as she hulas into the coffee table

laughs into the lamp

cry-giggles to the floor.

I will not forget the time

she brought out her ukulele

and Colt 45

held it to her left temple

then crown.

Grandma Eunice,

if you were to drive

by 3901 Windsor Way,

peek into the window at yourself

you’d see a woman

downing Diet Coke & rum

that only you call ice tea.

You’d see a woman

stumble through the fluorescent night,

your Maui Island faraway

as you dance into the dust

of volcanic ash.

The following poem first appeared in Volume 3, Red Dirt Review (Spring 2012).

Waiting in Line at the Pott. County Wal-Mart

If you live in the rural South and you are female and own a vehicle, or your cousin owns a vehicle, you can’t help but shop or just browse Wal-Mart at least once a week. In fact, Wal-Mart is not unlike attending the First Baptist Church; it is there and you must, you must participate in that weekly or more visit because it is how you were raised, and the urge to be a part of this world is coded into your Southern female DNA . If you are from the East or West coast you likely won’t understand, but anyone from here, the rural South, this South, well, ya’ll know what I mean.

                                                                        -Amy Susan Wilson

This dude runs some Morning Star corn dogs

down the conveyer,

there goes four Silk Soy Strawberry yogurts

but this guy, he’s no fruit

No Sir

tan biceps –Big–

but not too big

cute jogger’s butt

framed in Levis

he stands about 6’3–

oh, here goes some organic blueberries

wow, I am like marrying you

if you’d ever get off your phone

so I could say,

Blueberries, isn’t it nice they’re in season?

That’s what I’d say cuz I can’t think

of anything better;

How pathetic.

Wait, he’s going ninety an hour

on his cell:

So fight the cocks anyway

Just  fight’em ‘n place five, C.J.

What? He’s yacking about birds?

fighter birds?

How can you buy soy ‘n fight birds?

You know they attach razor blades to their ankles;

even Kris Steele, a Republican,

voted against cock-fighting.

Mmm, second thought,

Mister those Levi’s

just hang out on your bony ass

‘n your nose pug-like,

a girl nose

No a Michael Jackson nose.

Lord, now I have to get a divorce

cuz I married you

when Lynelle here rang up

teriyaki tofu, some three olive hummus–

I honeymooned with you at a green resort

in Tucson

as you sacked

with cloth reusable, recycled  bags

you brought from home.

Lord, I can’t help

but linger at Coin Star

as you drain the change

from your hemp wallet—

I thought you were tan from jogging

with a big black rescue dog

the kind no one wants to adopt

but no, I find out you’re tan from

raising rooster bulls to cock fight.

Gosh dang, cock fighting.

murdering the Lord’s creatures.

Are you the one

to attach the razors?

Or does your buddy C.J.

do your dirty work?

How do I find men like you?

Now you’re climbing into a hybrid Escape,

a bumper sticker:

 “Support the N.R.A.”

Oh shit!

I need an annulment

and fast.

You catch my eye and grin.

Listen, this three minute marriage

it’s over

I’m glad to be single again

and whew,

start my new life over

totally without you.

Slut Butt Miller: A Barber’s Daughter

Whale-O-Suds Tunnel Wash,

Jimmy Maloney unfastens

midnight-blue push-up

one hand.

White wife beater

daisy duke shorts

litter John Deere

floor mats

along with

Jack Daniels

Pall Mall pack.

That gush

of green soap,

creamy mint frosting

you’d see on top

a cupcake.

Turtle Wax

complimentary,

3:00 in the a.m.

Tonight

Blaine Sawder

football keg

Haunted Hill.

Pink thong

unwraps

Jolly Rancher easy,

watermelon kind.

After

the after party

Slut Butt

squeals donuts alone

Shawnee Bowl.

Neon pin

oil derrick tall

winks egg-white.

All the boys

gone home

texting from bed

their real

sweethearts.

Keystone glued

to cup holder,

Slut Butt

circles her Father’s

‘95 beige Impala

round and round

that empty lot,

swears to FM

and humidity

her Daddy visits

like in a movie

but a dream,

Recall your tire swing

            Salt Fork River?

                        I cut from old tread

            roped to oak—

                        You was my

            Little Angel,

                        Baby-Girl.

Her Mama

irons shirts

seventy-five cents

a pop,

Benny Lee

            Yacking to you 4:00 a.m.—

            And I won $500 million

            Oklahoma Lottery.

Asphalt and sky

pitch-black

as the inside

of a beer can,

the backseat

of some boy’s truck

waiting.