A Face for Radio

        As usual I am unusually tired.
        All night my fingers double-crossed me,
        tangled up in someone else’s hair.
        Breakfast is sand with a promise of pearls.
        If I were an operation, I’d be fly-by-night
        and very bloody. If I were a sow,
        I’d be hog-tied. I was born under
        the sign of the toy breed, the yapper,
        if you will–and I will–on the cusp
        of bikini season.  Somersaults,
        cartwheels.  Call me poorly executed.
        Call me late for dinner and a regrettable
        houseguest, wet towel on the bed.
        Call me go-getter, meaning going going gone.
        If anyone needs me I’ll be at the arcade
        across from the fire station, shooting
        the teeth off the cardboard clown.
        If you give me a dollar I’ll take
        my top off and let you see my heart.

by Dora Malech
published by Post Road

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