With my own eyes, I saw the Sibyl hanging in a cage
Crystal J. Hoffman

Singing the theme to “Have Gun, Will Travel”
she makes a point of lying in the grass until
it sticks to her thighs, indenting the tender
sun reddened skin above the backs of her knees.

She waits for men to bring silver trumpets,
plays with lacy pink ribbons, long to the
middle of her stomach, and begs of passer-bys

It won’t take long to fuck me senseless, you
already know what I look like, in dim light legs
wrapped around you, chest sore from friction
and how I react when you tell me that braids are
always a bad idea. I’ll even call you sir, as long as
it hurt. I fall in love so quickly now.

Music makes the stenchless dead rat laying beside
her right foot unusually appropriate, so that she
forgets to ask how it died, and instead asks it what
she asks every dead thing‹

A fool may often a wise man lead, like a stream
running across a dirt floor. Chimpanzees are getting
smarter all the time. I saw one rowing a boat the
other day.

Ants and horseflies surround her, and she breathes deep
the silver trumpeting from the memorial fountain, not
sure whether she hears it or not. There a middle-aged
Hispanic man asks her to dance and her whispers stick
to his flesh.

They tell me that you’ll hate me in exactly that way,
loving String Theory because it makes you uncomfortable.
I could pretend to be your short, chubby Asian girl,
with a high-pony-tail, checkered skirt, and blue-button-
down-blouse. On bended knee I asked you for bread,
took off my shirt, and showed you the bruises on my arms.
You called me a whore, and I smiled, because you’re
Even sexier when you’re ape-like.

There is no smell, no sound, but still the Sibyl cries.
Ahh, Johan thinks he knows that, too
I wish I were dead.

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