11 To G. For you, it is a famine that you are feminine And fragile inside your fake muscles -- rather a girl Than a man -- Playing with your doll-body, maimed by age, Cracks cross a porcelain face; bandaging your fear Of disintegration with a custom-made Candy wrap; Running away from danger On a treadmill In a doll house--in a doll town--on a doll island; Making wish lists, unattached; Bouncing with a Wall Street jump rope, Sweat sweet with eau de cologne; speeding In circles on your tiny Porsche pony; Grammatically-politically-analytically correct -- But a transgressor still.







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IRENE CĂSAR
Returned Mail
Collected Poems

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