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Girls at Night
She. Her.
She is one of those girls that is so beautiful
you want to be sick. Your knees turn rubbery,
your stomach feels as if you are in motion.
You need a mirror.
It's disgusting.
You are at that club on Friday,
Saturday night in New York City, in New Jersey, in Alaska-
it doesn't matter when or where-
She is always there.
She. Her. Over there,
dancing.
She is so thin she may contain no water.
You think if you pressed her the right way,
she would most definitely collapse.
It would be sexy. Like fainting with pleasure.
You swear you can see her floating.
She is what the wind lifts on purpose.
She is the meaning of worship.
It's disgusting.
You want to break her.
But, you know she can't help it. What are you saying? Yes- she can.
She. Her. She.
That one over there.
She doesn't have to dance the unattainable dance.
You know the one: Stiff shoulders. Snake hips, like a stripper.
Staring at the ceiling.
You think she is perfect.
It's disgusting.
She shoots everyone's stare
down through the smoke,
dead.
She knows she is a commodity.
She tells you "I am everything" and you say
"yes"
"yes"
"yes you are"
She. Her.
She is.
She is the girl in all the poems by Shakespeare- All those "Dark Lady"
sonnets.
Those are her. She. Her.
She will let your blood out slowly
and you will always stand still.
She will never make sense
and you will never care.
She would look good on your sofa. On her hands and knees.
Naked, she is the picture of a painted woman.
Poreless.
If you get close enough, you may see the brush strokes.
Where the artist mixed the red with the yellow with the white.
If she lifts her hair and you look at the nape of her neck,
you may become crippled.
You want to concentrate her and drink her.
She makes you insane. Hell, she makes everyone insane
and they don't even know it.
You want her so much you are aching.
You want her to want you.
Maybe you will find her one day,
and ask to light her cigarette.
Carol Casa
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