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“A silver Lucifer/ serves
cocaine in cornucopia
To some somnambulists
of adolescent thighs …”

— Mina Loy, “Lunar Baedeker”


Back when I use to be alive and drunk
on stale sweat and beer. An amazon leaned

on her stick, fingers blue with chalk. Some punk
band screamed in the jukebox, “Lezzie Sex Fiend,”

I think, while another girl bent to take
her shot, her afro brushing the green felt.

Detroit girls in pool halls, full of the ache
of first love and adolescence. I’ve dwelt

among their shadows. It’s where you found me;
in the toilet stall, calling me “cousin.”

Because I’m neither drunk nor alive. “Lick
me here”
— And I do. You taste beer-salty.

“Damn, girl, that’s nasty,” you say. “Shit, your skin’s
stone-cold — Cousin, you’re one fucked-up dead chick.”