by Marina Weiss
has a measured calm.
When she leaves the party, a cigarette smoldering
between her fingers, some look
for her nipples through her dress. Others ask
each other is she not somehow foreign?
In her speech—not accent-less,
precisely—each word’s appraised
with calipers. Perhaps she has
training? Pretentiousness? They digress:
it is strange, they say,
that she never takes anyone home, but
then she’s not a GPS, (and I went home
with her once). She encompasses herself
unusually well, tells me
to “Turn North” instead of left,
even inside, but when we undress in the moonlight to jump
off the old dock you’ll see, yes,
there’s a sea monster tattoo on her soft flesh.
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