This is a bit odd, and may make no sense to anyone but me, but so it goes.
The Lying Girl
A girl can’t be boiled down, distilling off
her volatile, courageous, intemperate,
intoxicating spirits; spooning
the rest, reduced, into a girl-shaped mold.
A wild, exploring, pistol-packing heroine
won’t be locked up tight in a lead-lined box
and shelved, for her safety, high and dark away.
She won’t be cowed, become a shadow.
The one at the head of the pack doesn’t stoop
to begging for Simon’s permission
before she takes a step. She doesn’t hide
in a corner of the dark, whimpering.
She doesn’t behave. She packs a bindle-staff
and takes the to road, up the hill and away.