by Tanya Muzumdar 

issue 63

Halloween Night at the Pink Pony

 It’s the year’s fifth season on an island
where lilacs swell in the dirt,
like the ruffles on your skirt,
depressed against Austin Powers’

velvet waist, his pant leg wiping your shin. He
kisses you, a new kiss, the first since your man left.
His chin scratches your glitter so you slip 
away with a humid spot on your lips.

You drink with a pair of six-foot lighthouses,
clinking gin and tonics with icebergs,
pass one to the woman who opens her

raincoat full of dolls with fur crotches.
Patients yank IV rigs past a headless
surgeon busy on a window’s black knee. 

A plainclothesman and his wife—
in poodle and ponytail—say hi, then he flashes
you phone shots of his sister’s spread legs. 

An abstract painting, his canvas face blue and red
polka dots, white brows not yet
dripping into his eyes, carries a cloud

sign: Why won’t he just love me? 
Your breastbone opens to his rain. 
But as hundreds pack in no one feels you

anymore. If a fight breaks out?
You’re all bowling pins, mannequins, fringes,
IV sloshes pissing on the floor. 

Your breastbone shudders closed. 
Past the man with the nude sis, you
turn, grab the knob to the street. 

Stuck to your shoe, a shred
of toilet paper
follows you like a veil.