by Brian McCloskey
My spoon was right. I had a bag. Tights shield you from having to worry. The trees are some of them. I was in full pantyhose, a layer of tight undergarments in a wholly unnatural fabric. Let’s not fight in front of the monkey. And you can use these teeth as a ladder. They find it exciting to see a woman wearing pantyhose and some of them like to wear pantyhose themselves. Attach to the end of the tube which discharges water from the washing machine. Who is that hauntingly beautiful apparition manifesting at the old cabin? She put her hand on her stockinged knee and slid it up under my dress, up past the silkiness of nylons. All the ladies know that once you’ve wriggled out of those things, you’re not wriggling back into them. The fly is on my mother’s kayak. And nobody wears a skirt unless everyone does. There are five things to write songs about. Ballet is inextricably bound up with fantasies of eternal girlhood. Sexual functioning returned, but my breasts didn’t shrink. It seems a tainted pastry. Codfish eyes floated white and signified happiness. The right ones seem to be almost more flattering than wearing solid black. When I write poetry there is something wrong. A radish reconciled us after a turnip estrangement. I dressed all in black and carried a fishing pole with a candy bag at the end of it. Embrace the season’s bright opaques, and enjoy it while it lasts. I renounce fish. If he wears a skirt it's easy access. I’m whisked away on blue leotards. Although I think it was mostly that I liked wearing a leotard and tights. Electrons don’t dance. I always thought someone’s lap would be the best pillow for me.