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)