What kind of big city girl are you?
You don’t own a vibrator, you don’t wax?
There’s no L’Obs in your bathroom and
you eat too much sugar and smoke American cigarettes
Come to think of it … are you sure you’re gay?
The radiator made its dying throes as
it began to warm
Roses tied upside down reminding me
of girls petticoats, gave off the scent
of the color green, her eyes were
Absinthe melting over brown sugar.
Outside, frost held onto glass like a woman
without a drink stares into bars
Chartreuse on her dry tongue.
Repulsed by me, she lay in my lap
like a hungry cat still claiming her cream
I’m not like the others, I said
watching the way her upper lip swallowed her small mouth
when she chewed it
when I demonstrated
big city girls come
in many different shades …
hers? Vermillion cast in
Château La Fleur
drunk hot-faced by a dirty fireplace
tasted like fresh L’ile Flottante
found in the late patisserie
just when it had begun to pour
and stars lit the way home
pools of tiny perfection
quite impossible to sustain