Mujer Joven Triste
by Steven J. Serafiani
You sent me out,
said your mouth had a rose list.
instead, like the aviator I am, I
flew to neon-
I cannot provide you with what I cannot grow.
I want nylons for my wooden
hollow body; the
classical canine rip of a
rach. As I lay wild,
you played mujer joven triste in
the kitchen and you moaned a
You sent me in,
said your life demanded a love missed.
instead, like the Marxist I am, I peered into other skirts-
I cannot provide you with
what I never learned.