Ear against the boom box
I wait for her word to exalt me
give meaning to the things I do
to shine for you – the pomade
even olive oil couldn’t remedy,
the constant braiding and rebraiding
of the curling tail (payos?) you left
when the rest of your head was shaved,
the Lady Slipper (protected by law)
I plucked for you, bodies stripped
of all but pencil and pink
you embodied in my hands
running over my skin,
forehead; cheek.
Her song didn’t mention her
coveting a girl, exactly. In fact
she slurred the word
so I had to rewind
a few times to hear it clear
but then I pictured a Tootsie
Pop of which you were the center
and I started counting licks.