Unease hangs on fame trees
bespeckled by drooped prop lights
as I leave Valeria in a bus
to act
like she belongs, as if anyone belongs
anywhere, who’s to say what’s right
underneath a moon who lies
to us
every night, concealing
lighted portions of herself, hiding
dusty cratered skin
as dark places in
the midst
of empty spaces
while mannequins remain
tucked behind glass,
wearing gold; exquisite, fit,
staring, wanting, vacant, stuck, cold
in their grim, posed smiles just beyond
our reach
(originally published in NEAT., Issue 5, September 2014)