Job Description

I’m a funeral, stockings fresh
with loving; my elderly fingers
hate to disappoint
the corpse. A cameo
of sisters in fishnets tent
trousers as I trespass, sample
unused graves, march down
mayoral streets; October all along
the bluish ventricles. Imagine
my enthusiasm lying down.

Dress Me Up

Erotica tore the heads
off Barbies. Borderline:
a rising hem, eyeing
the crotch. Hiding out for hours
in the warbling underground—
girls on the backs
of pinball machines singing
Papa Don’t Preach all summer long.
A shy piñata perched
on the stairs, getting into the grooves
of bottom lips, floorboards—all hands on
the plastic joystick,
like a virgin, entering numb.

Betty's Veronica

Nail polish gash. The family rash.
Everyone laughed as I drew
the blue sparkle of your black hair;
those sorry punks. If we share
a talent, it’s no mistake—piece of me
there, in your handbag,
your lambskin; the most darling creatures
crammed into cages, nursing a stranger
breast. I admit you own most
desirables; rattle baubles,
empty bottles. A raven all the rage.
I shake my tambourine. I shake
shake down to my very last
lash. A mouth indentured green.