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Last Tango in Paris
by Emily Brink

You’re wearing a pink dress
for a man with a belly like pizza dough.

You empty everything out on the table:
lipstick, keys, wallet, name.

He takes it, swears
he’s not looking.

He stares at you, eyes
like a great white.

He straps on a black leather glove.
“Think of a scent” he says.

Already, you can smell
your own blood.

The floor is a sushi board,
your dress flipped

over your head, you
can’t see what he’s doing.

He enters like a branch, grows black wings
and flies through your city.

It is over.

You exhale through your pink veil.
Persephone grounded.

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