Mary F. Lee


Stare at me;
still life in smoke,
sophisticated baby.
Trombones, saxophones
do a job on me, 
blow torch me slithery red
hair to crashing hips to
black patently ridiculous heels.
I'm high, getting higher—
drink me up until you bang
your head on the bar. 
Chrome stroke of microphone
stand by my thighs      sparkles
on my lips      brush its tip
clenched in my fist;
song slips from my throat
like silk over gravel,
syllables bubbling in all
the right places.
Brass humming
under me          me
on top of slick sound.
My teeth glow
like Cheshire cat's.

Men smile.
Women do not.