She had a plastic skeleton sit in her motorcycle sidecar. She draped it with hula flowers and kept an empty bottle of Sailor Jerry’s taped to it’s right hand. She rarely drove it— but managed to disappear from view the moment she left the apartment building. She could have rivaled Houdini in another era.

She had hand tattoos that spelled out “Nox Lupus” across her knuckles. I wanted to call her Ima Jean, but the last person that did is still swimming from her slap.

Her Olympic weight lifting exploits meant she had a firm “Don’t fuck with” vibe. Even when she smiled like a benevolent Saint giving benediction. I’d pray at her feet— but I’m not sure if she wouldn’t break my knees for me to do it.

I hate being scared. And being around her makes me feel like a Wall Street banker during an IRS audit, but I wouldn’t back down. Not after I saw her shot a rattlesnake out of a tree.

I had to understand the forces that go into creating a living legend— even if I might die trying.

The first time she talked to me— I was moving into the walk up above her. She looked at my boots and frowned. “You’re going to wear sneakers or socks from now on. No heels over my head.” I put my boots in storage thirty minutes later.

She cooked almost every meal on the charcoal grill in the backyard. She’d stack pallets of ribs in the basement freezer. I gave up trying to store my frozen berries down there. Some battles aren’t even worth beginning. I’d say hi, but I only ever managed to squeak since I was too scared to use her name. I’d heard someone else call her “J” but I didn’t think I could pull it off.

The girls that did have that familiarity trailed her into the building like she was a leather clad siren. I’d lay against the wood floors and hear the huffs and grunts of sweaty work being done. I’d run my hands through the thick wool carpet next to the bare wood and imagine it was her short, spiked black hair.

Later, I sit with my cracked, teal avian review mug and squirm at the thought of her finding out I ease-dropped on her intimate encounters. I wanted to write a poem for her— but I was scared she would have anything to say if she read it. I could bear the ignorant silence— I don’t know if I’d survive a knowledgeable one.