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Maggie Ginestra Golden Girls Remix [episode: Rose loses her husband’s horseshoe sales pension. Sophia joins a shopping club.] God wants me to finish these sardines. Touch my leg. God wants me to finish these sardines. Touch my leg. My husband couldn’t walk by a horse. Sometimes the horse would laugh. That bag lady on 135th is me. Why don’t we just set each other on fire? Touch my leg. Why don’t we just set each other on fire? My husband couldn’t walk by a horse without asking Touch my leg? without asking “How about something in an Oxford?” And then he’d laugh. Touch my leg. And then I’d laugh. Touch my leg. And then sometimes the horse would laugh. My husband couldn’t walk by a horse. God wants me to finish these sardines. Touch my leg! I could grate cheese on your legs by the time you were sixteen. God wants me to finish these sardines. That bag lady on 135th is me. What does shaving above the knee say? How about something in an Oxford? Why don’t we just set each other on fire? Well, I hope it says Touch my leg? Yellow Bug, Orange Corvette Looked down at these crossed legs and said, Damn, those some good legs. I said, It’s been a while. It’s been a while. Picked up my new strapless bra, held it up to my dirty blue shirt and said, This town, this town, this town. What do I need? What do I need? I’m a greedy girl, I need things new and real and reeling. Next door, next door, so many cars, each waxed and oiled and running. Yellow bug, orange Corvette, white pick-up truck. They do a cake walk. They do a cake walk. Each of my toes with its own arc, with its own arc. Each toe, I’ll follow each. Most Popular You ask, Does she get her very own front porch swing and bon-bon tin? You’re always playing the ass for some extra cushion. I’ll tell you. She has her very own front porch swing and bon-bon tin. It seems ownership is a look and then a slow blink. While we’re asking, What would you do with your own? And how do you take your tea? lemon? milk? honey? What if I told you she took all three, still tasting nothing but her own dark throat? There is nothing to say I’m not lying. A porch swing implies something to hang it from. The Stalactites under Mt. Soofreemio In a dream I am slim again in one of Henry Darger’s caves, my breasts—skinned butters— having slipped off and blown home. I have loins of air with fragile hair, just a poof of banana gnats. I’m beautiful as dirt freshly shat by worms— such a black could be anything tweaked— a green, a blue, a brown? I’m indecipherable as the two mirrors who stare each other to dust. Along the frayed underbelly of earth, my bird-cries gather in puddles. My gummy gape, little oval hunger, wobbles ladderless beneath the rocky teats. I smell a strange lava— melted spatula, wet dog— and I run, not caring as the caves change their colors. I run, leaving a dead skin trail of ash and I dream I am a rabbit but I’m not.
Maggie Ginestra has previously had poems published in Cairn and The Sow's Ear Poetry Review.
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