By Denise R. Weuve

she is doing it again
leaving behind
the needles,
her discarded lovers,
one after another,
a trail to her other
side, the side
that is not a mother.
the side that never
wanted to be a
mother.
her breast have
always been dry
empty sex toys
she displays
on merchant marine
ships like green cards
for the asian sailors.
she will sit in bars
for hours sending
watered down drinks
to men eating balutt.
the duckling ready
to hatch but boiled
just before the bill
could form.
It makes her ill
watching them peel
away the flesh
place the still closed
eyes on their tongues.
she forgives them all,
those mouths being
the ones she will kiss
for fifty dollars,
300 if she stays
the night.
her daughter will
figure this out soon
drop the needles
from the air
like chinese fortune
sticks that explain her fate.
then spend the night
with a georgian boy
ask for twenty dollars
knowing this is what
all women do
in smaller amounts.

First appeared in Genre Literary Journal

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