curls into the blue quilts. She's bored with her new part,
is waiting for another. She doesn't want to bite her
nails, chew what she should dig into lovers' backs
to nubs, shouldn't gnaw fudge, nibble the inside

out of Oreos. Already Photoplay, Movie Screen has
sneered her curves are too fully packed, that later in
the sixties it will be the skinny girls who are in demand -
no one will want to roll in hips and bellies, only on

water beds. She knows she ought to work out but waiting
makes her weak. She's bitten the erasers off pencils, feels
wood on her tongue like a someone swallowing glass and she
doesn't want to dial a man, have all that sweat and hair

spilling over her, turning her hair there and there a
musky frizz. If she could just grow her own penis
that would give them something to see when she stands
on a grate and someone blows air up under her red skirt,

the color they said would make men want to charge.
A penis would make them look again, maybe not just assume
she's a sexy blond ditch. It would be something she
could hold and cuddle, better than a cigarette, more like

a small pet, or a child, something to stroke and feel grow
inside her, but not push her out of shape like a man or
a child, something to excite and then calm her as almost
nothing she can put her hand on recently has

Music by Christopher Aitken
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