Winter 1989 • Vol. XI No. 1 Poetry |

At Roxy’s Topless

For Cinnamon Because she chortled like a sibyl at my question, perched naked as a number on the edge of the table, smoothing the wadded dollars, singing through the din and the scrimmage: Maine!              because she recited Wild nights! Wild nights! like a schoolgirl in the thundering disco, through the drunken crackers' whoop and the clang of their cast-iron ashtrays against the tables at Roxy's Topless,              because I felt round my thighs the chill of the surf she rose from, the salt in my wounds, the languor of deliverance, did that yield me the luxury to dream her somewhere else?—shopping for chicken thighs at the super? checking out Trollope novels from the local library? Blasphemy. Like wrestling the Blessed Virgin down from her altar into the local K-Mart, to strand herin Housewares or in Beauty Aids.             Ah! the sea! Might I but moor / Tonight in thee—bo

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For Cinnamon Because she chortled like a sibyl at my question, perched naked as a number on the edge of the table, smoothing the wadded dollars, singing through the din […]

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