by Corey Mesler
Like Monroe she has flesh you’d think was sweet like cake.
You can almost touch it through the cold screen of
the magazine photo. You can see the intelligence in her face,
but it is not her intelligence that you will love.
Like an odalisque she coils, that obscure object of desire.
You want to bring her something, something fine.
Underneath her cool wan surface there seems an emerald fire.
And all you can bring her is this, or this, the next line.
