constellations of girls in redKristy Bowen
Eight o’clock and we open our skirts, our rumpled lace. Black gloved in the wings, passing cigarettes and flirting with the pianist. Night folds me like a doll into a dress, lusting for copper, chocolate, whatever I can bite down on. I am especially attuned to wrists, the rehearsal within the rehearsal. Floorboard creak and fire hazard. The soloist offers me a jug of wine, a catbird. Can do a trick with flying that puts the aerialist to shame. Mechanics, she says, all pulleys and wires. There’s a crumpled dollar in my pocket, three gallons of salt water in the larder. Her music box plays something that sounds like Wagner. My hair tangles in her paper fan.
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