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Natasha Japanwala
price-tag girl


my pilate-born legs are framed in
white lace doilies pulled off,
a formal dining table,
strung like crepe paper bunting,
on turquoise strings
round my thighs.
we dance in each others silence,
thin onion skin doilies
tango
in the wind song.

stop looking at my skirt.
i can see through snowflake holes
too. But you got an eye
full. It keeps us on a wooden plank
and the silver deck grows
cold.

stop pretending we are the sunset
or your best friend’s yacht.
we are me,
we are a breast you cup in your palm and then
forget about
we are a golden chain that makes my ears
prettier,
and your pleasure more
metallic.

a gull stops at the water,
contemplates. stares at me like a third
person pressing her body to you,
black diamonds- his eyes look at me
like you do.
my feet fall into turquoise waves
that sew the world to me,
something comes to the surface, nibbles
at his world. for a while.

and you,
you make me feel cheap-
a buy one, get one free
sort of deal.


 

 

 

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