She stopped taking pictures of herself,
and so did her ego.
She did everything twice, including
duplicity. It was
either the year they’d electrocuted
the Rosenbergs, or
it wasn’t. A simple proposition, he said,
and out in the open
like an exchange of currency on street
corners. She’d given
up her dream of a bus ride to California,
a career as a costume
designer. But she still had footprints
on her receipts,
and a half-open bag of gummy bears.
was a dish best served on fine china.
She was dessert.
A la carte or a la mode? It didn’t matter.
She just wanted
to be undressed on top of the table.
She could pose
under the hot lamps, hold her smile,
even when her breasts
started to melt. She could press a cherry
between her teeth,
still as a tremble fox all day, if it meant
his mint green slippers.
Jay Robinson teaches Creative Writing at Ashland University. He's also Co-Editor-in-Chief/Reviews Editor for Barn Owl Review. Poems have appeared in 32 Poems, Anti-, The Laurel Review, and The North American Review, among others.