men are shapes, women are lines
you look up and smile and you never look up again
look at your body
your body is not human
lady dips her fingertips in nail polish
there is history
in the lines of your lips, the creases of your palms, the art of your wrists
your alter on the bar
pen to napkin, a sentimental redesign of
a coffeeshop war with no fronts and no guns
all skin and no bones
lift your goddess’s veil, you can ask her anything,
but you will always leave unhappy
and she will always be sitting there
secluded, smug, and vulnerable
thinking more and more of her body as something to inhabit,
wondering what it’s like
to touch or be intimately involved or swallowed whole
PLUTO BLOOMING 