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Why become my mother, giving
each man I date the third-degree,
when there’s no plastic on my
furniture?
I put on a jeweled corset, danced and stripped
till 6 am, in underground speakeasies,
actors, dancers &
fire-eaters.
Juggled photographer & chef,
drank, sniffed, played threesome, tempted
the undead every Saturday
night.
Another romantic comedy, my cat, huge
bowl of popcorn, purring, content. Nostalgic
for curtain call smiles,
crying in dressing rooms, broken
with a lover, hangovers, youth
nothing but groping.
Now my apartment’s off-limits, blood tests
before a shred of clothing hits the floor—
well, a hat, a scarf, a shoe.
With the pleasure bleached out we’re crisp, we’re clean,
barren in the company of day-traders who,
lonely and fearful, forget
the Epicurean rule. I long for the old abandonment,
for the sweat-soaked layers like snakeskin, the nights
I’d lie down and give in.
by Myna Wallin
from: The Old
Abandonment, ©2003
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