People often ask if I perform burlesque.
I don’t, but I read poetry.
Can’t reveal much more of myself.
I called up an old lover of mine
How about we just lay on the carpet
And drink too much wine?
It was that kind of night, we both needed one.
He walked into the kitchen,
I stood on my toes, stretched towards wine glass
“Every time I see you,
You look more you.”
“New York gives me an excuse.”
I wondered how many times I had
Pressed the pattern of the carpet into his skin.
He smiled like 17,
Smelled like tobacco leaves.
We spoke of escape,
He was driving to L.A.
I was still breathing Brooklyn
I revealed what the psychic had told me,
About the impending doom of
The second week of January.
We spent the evening
Pressing old stories into skin
Bite marks, moans
I recited poetry,
He laughed at all the right lines,
“You collect a lot of ammunition.”
I asked him,
“Why do all the bad decisions have to be so good looking?”
“When did it become so hard to be easy?”
I sighed, admitted
“I’m in trouble with this one.”
Sometimes you just have to do it for the story.