LIFE OF GRIME

A poem

Still moist, I rescued frogs
embroidered with the names of defunct domains
while adoring dragonflies sought my chin’s shade.

Later, I was diagnosed with vicious, flashing eyes
and a slow-moving scandal arose
from which eyebrows never fully lowered.

Finally, men came with diggers
to clear the space. That was upsetting.

But I turned my losses into glossy paintings,
clawed my way back to gauzy underwear.
People want secrets they alone 
can uncover.

These days, I prefer my lovers metaphysical—
macho, bridal, and unlikely 
to roughen my long-term silkiness.

An actual man waves in my direction 
while a building repeatedly collapses around him.
He doesn’t register 
my sighs.

This is why I endure girl dinners.
Meat and mints—a Roman mosaic of mental leaps;
that space between wanting 
and having.