published in Cult of Clio 2021
Inverted crucifix stripper wonders why
some gentlemen approach her bottoms up breasts
where gravity’s defied, deny
an aerialist dollars with obsessed
looks, deranged eyes. Offering cash to one beside,
translucent unidentified. She feels
its electricity whenever it glides
proximate to her glittered skin. Must be real,
she decides, fallen dancer, perchance
even a possible friend. A dozen have died
in the twenty-two years since she first pranced
nude her first time — murder, two suicides,
a few car wrecks, childbirth, drug overdose.
Fresh flesh everywhere, men covet the ghost.