I Think She’s Kind of Ugly

by Dena

Her voice on water
comes across the table,
seething round the rim of
her glass. The waiter
tips more, no ice. Her
voice on no ice is colder.
The starch between us is
miles of muslin tundra, acres, too big
for an explorer to scotch, cover, pass.

What starts hot ends cold. She likes
the snow, the rot underneath when
the sun comes around again. Me.

There is no me. I vanish into each
year, bloody and more lavish than
a golden ghetto coke spoon. Her
breasts quiver in their sweet cage. I
prickle at their salute. I fuck off.