by Eve Alexandra
I wanted to be on fire with sequins—mercurial,
amphetamine—to have lower Manhattan
reflect off my breasts, to stop cars
with the relentless choreography
of my ass in gold short-shorts,
to make the mouth of the city
curse and swim
for the sheen of my thighs and calves.
I’ve walked for miles in stiletto heels
without bruising a blister—painted
my lips a red that refuses to bleed
kisses. On Friday nights
we would get stuck on the Hutch,
lose ourselves in the entrails
of the Meatpacking district
behind the restless pirouette of cabs—
prospective johns rushing the concession stand,
preview manna coming on soft as cotton candy,
sex sticky as rainbow jujubes.
We were the college girls with our faces powdered
and pressed to the tinted glass—the rich ones
in a uniform of black tights and minis.
When men asked my major
I said theater.
and dealers, we would line
the leather of bars, Persephone perched
on stools at clubs where she got in the door
for looking bored and pretty. I spent
five hours in a dressing room
with a band from Trinidad
stoned on something called blue,
remember the smoke
rising off all eight of their faces,
rhythm locking into my hips
but none of their hands. I never
made money off any of it. Mostly
our sex was cool and flat
as those pale green mints
at all-night diners. Mints
tasting like chalk, scooped with the lip
of a tiny silver spoon. How can I tell you
I just want it to be real:
our two bodies breathing,
the texture of cotton,
the brick of the wall.
Now I’m not acting, not selling anything
and I want you to own me
one blue night like this.