1332

and the jockey went around
asking what face everyone wanted
shaky fingers
pointed at glossy catalog pages
some weak throats spat
confirmations and refusals

I could have sworn
mine wasn’t there on the third page
beside Monroe and that boy
hit by the garbage truck
the week before
but
some grey haired woman ran out
the barn with my moles and lips

I saw myself holding me
trading dollars for sympathy
then out of reach
hands still in tall grass

and the jockey shrugged as he
dropped a white mask on the floor
there was understanding over there
but I wasn’t going