Writers Issue: Trip the Light FantasticBy Arisa White
I'm the lady in the joint without a g-string and waxed chocha.
Winter dressed and the money in my pocket afforded me a Heineken.
I have no ones to offer to thighs that can headlock Washington.
Coins work best for parking meters and wishes.
When the next dancer arrives to stage, she brings a blanket.
The basket and wine are missing. She wipes the pole
with a moist napkin -- the abracadabra is gone.
Gestures to the wall to press start, positions her gingham
so it doesn't abandon her when she scripts her alphabet.
She takes an interest in me -- this is not ego --
she sees the wardrobe of long sleeves and pants in how I stare.
Weeks ago, I saw her forefinger in some butch's belt loop,
coupled like his and hers towels. Maybe she noticed me then.
She comes to my earring and requests, slap my ass.
Shakes it like wind went through her leaves.
My hands are on pause. She laughs
then brings her undulations to a man in woodsman flannel.
She returns her legs, fans the sweet of green
apples ripe in my nose. In doggy style, demonstrates.
Her spank is the utter of unbreakable dishware.
Again -- thud. No shatter.
She encourages me, recognizes this is my first time on a two-wheeler.
I grab the Heineken to cool the singing in my palm.
I'm ordered to give it to her, and like the kid in band
who plays cymbals, counting to cue, I make her bottom ring like Saturn.
She wanes from stage with a fête of smiles in her strut.
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