by Laura Hardy
Lets go to the moon and dig a giant hole.
So big in fact only our arms will penetrate the surface,
we will reach out just at the top,
our fingers will dance as blue flowers for our graves.
Then we will walk downstairs to Beirut
and laugh, as the men we have been inside stare,
trying to remember why our hands look familiar.
We will answer seductively, “Monsieur, do you not recall?
I performed your colonoscopy” and he will glare,
looking down to see his hands are sewn to dull gold cymbals.
We will drink as he serenades us,
Bang, Bang, Bang.
Then it will start to rain.
So we will pull down the roof and build a house of cards to stay warm.
One hand inside our coats and another up our skirts, because
lesbian porn is all that works
and we swore we’d never be wives but only sleep with their husbands.
Then we will hear a cry.
The pornographer’s daughter, she stands tall in the mirror
unable to gaze upon her naked self.
Touch and feel are so very far apart.
We will climb her tower walls with suction cups made
with the chicken cutlets we left in our brassieres.
And take her down, down, down,
to the bridge, where guards shelter her shy cunt.
Even they will trade kisses for liberty,
and the pornographer’s daughter will turn red in the cheeks,
I’ll press my finger to her rouge, spread it on his lips whispering,
Because out here we know that:
Bare feet tell the best stories,
Sand can often be unkind,
Heat determines how much you smoke,
Rain cannot tear down a house of cards,
And you, like me,
Fall asleep with one, two, three,
But prefer to wake up alone.