Don't want to look hootchie mama."
She announced toward the cashier
but the volume is solely for me.
We are thrift store people and
for pleasure or necessity
we are claiming goods with auras
of all the past owners. Me, a small trash can,
chirpy canary yellow, circus bear-blazen side.
Her, woman-sized girl shoes, panda print,
and a dress with rebel yell of vivid blossoming neon.
Not far from the tree from which we fell
when I gazed at the silvery minnow streaks
under her navel as her cut-up crop top bellowed
and her behind pressed cheeks as children to windows,
pressed against shorts, short, as she perched,
bent over, hummingbird ready to dive
into a box of used socks, paired and perfect to pluck,
When I wished for a moment we didn't say sorry.
Sorry, I ate an apple. Sorry, I was hungry.
Sorry, my eyes stare. Sorry, my hands shake.
Let us do the silent mating dance of our foremothers,
heavy movements as darkness shrouded night
and tiger tongues were tight. Stretch out our tails,
our horns, our dreadful beaks, and caress invisible
Through the air, thick and worn, as our bodies,
not apologizing but experiencing
as rising of lung and breath
each other.
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