This poem appeared in the May 2012 issue of City Arts Magazine.

40

Driving around in my stolen car of lines ripped off from old hip-hop, I am the ripe women in aging bikinis. Most of these bikinis are yellow. These asses are not joking around. Stop, drop, and jiggle it. We are pushing the limits of a standard zipper. Each and every one of my selves is doing her part on this fine Sunday afternoon, swiping a debit card at the gas station for something cold wrapped in a paper bag, with which we will vaguely pretend to be stereotypically French, clicking heels and all. Our imaginations will elongate our limbs, we will stretch out on them like cats monorailing branches, our long invented fingers (hello, old friend) flicking some very real debris off the park bench.