She leans over the platform,
massaging her thigh, a well
of sweat gathers
between her breasts.
She bends down and rubs
it in some old man’s beard,
pulls the string around her plump hips and slaps
the silk fibers on Abe’s face.
Her grape fed breasts bounce, nasty
to the touch of creole and Eve
around the pole of ghetto life and the aftermath
of puberty, labels
peeled, wet and sticky, her clammy hands
pressed against her nostril for a blow
to her baby’s brain, the hollow pockets of strangers
her crimson lips whisper the zydeco dreams like
the sweetness of a plum, the bitter night
in a city where the walls have eyes that sleep
in the daytime, a lake that waits with the potential energy
to fill the well,
to destroy the footprints that
her daddy left
on the stoop, she wears her heels so she doesn’t
have to touch them.
The pastry shops are closed and
the moon and all its accoutrements have written
on the mirror below her finger tips,
white dust, another
blow to the candle in the cave
beneath her belly.
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