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--- J O A N N A   F U H R M A N

Those greenish lights reveal the restrooms
layered scum. The faucet by the window 
is always on. No water needed.

You might want to linger with your eighth grade crush, that vegetarian you inhaled veal near in the prep school cafeteria. Her teeth are still so vertical. Who cares if there are more "exciting" exhibitions on the floors above: a rumor of some porno projected on a fifth grade teacher's smile, a stick of butter churned to never melt?

Desire here is so hush-hush, docents bow their heads in admiration. I bet you never knew that girl whose hair you tried to stroke was still recovering from chemo?

And yes, it's true, the gift-shop's nearly out of souvenirs, the buyer's too ashamed to read the catalogue…

but still, I want to meet you here.

Please bring the look you hid from when you turned fifteen. I'll shine my nipples like the drool-wet-stars.

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published in association with the |
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