I drag it around like the

mother of a marriageable daughter,

shoving her in the faces of

eligible men,

dressing her up like a gift wrapped package.

I pull my poems around in a

cage like circus animals on display in

sad small towns

where men sit in the square with

caguamas, drunk by noon.

I whore my words out on

street corners, hair teased, faces thick with

make up, tarted up to

look like they’re a big deal,

the lure the only thing that matters,

the deed unimportant.

I dip each word in chocolate to

disguise the bitterness,

drown each stanza in gin to

make it slide down faster,

and I am quite successful in my

line of work.

by Cher Bibler