I stich pills with gin,
think in pink things,
pinch sticky skin if his Irish shirt clings right.
It’ll fix my mind.
I fill this midnight with stripping
him in Mississippi spring.
Give him VIP hits, wind, kiwi whisky.
This hip is his.
I lip, tip girls in tight skirts.
Swig sins. Whisk with mint.
Climb stilts in this city’s shining filth.
This is lightning.
Sage Curtis is a Bay Area writer fascinated by the way cities grit and women move. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Main Street Rag, burntdistrict, Yes Poetry, The Fem Lit, Vagabonds City and more. Find her here: sagedaniellecurtis.wordpress.com
Photo on Foter.com