After Meret Oppenheim
Steaming in gazelle,
espresso in a fur-lined teacup
clipped just less than an inch
scowling on the dresser. She gullets
fuzzed brown innards
with a Levonelle
& a little salt (a day later)
three phone calls missed at five fifteen
with another due at seven
we’d been waylaid. The first shout:
“time is money, the early bird–” catches
her skirt on the subway,
tearing office snags out in gashes,
rat-race scars. This is what prayer feels like:
holding your breath all the way to the bank.
Last month’s move-in lies around
pulling tooth and nail for a long
low sweetness & each week
frank autobiographical exposures meet another’s deadline.
Scissor spilt heels
incisive in stiff velvet
so red as to make
morning shriek with the mutts outside yelling:
thank you oh good lord for not making me a man.
Beastly things don’t belong at teatime. ∎
Words by Eleanor Cousins Brown. Art by Sasha LaCômbe.