Mary J. (Upswing)Yona Harvey
The booth had a door & the table had a door & the cup had a door & the darkness had a door you fell right through, you song in the head of a heathen. Someone had penciled your skirt, someone had lengthened your legs, someone had softened your bangs. & someone had drawn a mic & a door with a stage light peering through. & someone flipped the pages so your legs moved & your knees knocked & though your stiletto heels bent they didn’t break or get dirty. You were all motion & muscle moving with the logic of women who float in teacups. Closed door, open door, cracked door, hidden door, crate door, the door to heaven? You Yonkers lament, you unlatched the little leaves fastened around your ankles & swished your way to the surface, a song in your mouth, a pattern in your hair. You breath in the break when we swim.
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