Close-up, Mr. Bubble

I can only get noir in the summer skull high-heeled

a souvenir parasoled blood on my hands

the wooden crib empty

the still thin-hipped girls

at the nightswim without me $2.00 for pizza

a sailor bikini

waiting for him

or Sunday dinner chicken-fried steak

the fur hat I turned to a purse.

My tastes are crass. They smell like carrion and I couldn’t jump in.

I ask the rum courage probable

to give me thunderstorms to tape the soap operas

to lay the dolls out. I bob their black hair

wrapped in a mumu masturbate with a brush.

You couldn’t control my orange-blossom hurl

off the miniature Hollywood sign

or who was the heartthrob the day we were born.

My hair holds the heat.

Sex depends on the light and I ache for the blank sun

the swampboat your strong nails and teeth.

Sometimes I’m so desperate to slip into death

braids and blue lips birds and baby barrettes

the bathtub replicates the lagoon.

But you, you were different.

Less flapper. More frippery

mouse-grey crepe, patent leather.

Your pale baby gone

before realization

and yes the house covered in blood.

Jessie Janeshek's second full-length book of poems, The Shaky Phase, is forthcoming from Stalking Horse Press. Her chapbooks are Spanish Donkey/Pear of Anguish (Grey Book Press, 2016), Rah-Rah Nostalgia (dancing girl press, 2016), and Hardscape (Reality Beach, forthcoming, 2017). Invisible Mink (Iris Press, 2010) is her first full-length collection.

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