Through a puff of smoke and the discordant
notes of an amateur piano man, I watch her
sitting alone in a back corner booth,
a candle paints her face, eggshell
eyes like two dead light bulbs. Continue reading
Lying on a sterile table, white wax paper
crinkled under my young body—
a needle buried in my wrist.
Down the Boulevard of wilting eucalyptus trees and tagged up bus stops, a concrete crack breathes through crab grass lips—
Each night under the siren filled lights, the sharp points of high-heeled ladies clip-clop like hooves across that crack by the dozen Continue reading
In fifth grade, the dancer was the playground princess. Boys gathered in the grass to watch her swing, while girls scowled from lunch tables. The higher she pumped, the more she wondered if she could swing over the bar. The boys said no one could do it. Continue reading
The professional dancer went to mass on Sundays, and always tithed her ten percent. She knew all the saints by name; each had their own special prayer. When she lost her keys, Continue reading
On her dressing room mirror she taped a portrait of Marilyn, inscribed with one of her quotes, “The body is meant to be seen, not all covered up.” When the dancer walked on stage, Continue reading
When asked her occupation, she would say “professional dancer,” she preferred the ambiguity and it was far more respectable than “stripper.” Continue reading
