wouldn’t you like to know
-or-
everlasting prose
i finger the buttons of my skirt, situated at the small of my back, as i get off the train, undoing them one by one. climbing the stairs as my coat bunches in the crook of my elbow, swept back from my torso and i unlace myself, so to speak. those behind me say nothing. as i near the top of the subway steps i unzip the skirt. there is no notable difference in my appearance.
brooklyn is spitting at me. or rather, the sky is spitting at me, because brooklyn holds no grudges. walking through the mist, my skirt lilts upwards towards my breasts, the friction of my thighs defying gravity. i can feel the slit in the back exposing the cellulite on my hamstrings. i smile at the man who passes.
___________
i never remember unlocking doors. often, i find myself in my apartment, in my coat and scarf and burdensome sack of a bag, and forget how i got there, so vapid are the memories of key and lock.
today is one of those days.
i pause, in my kitchen, suit undone, arms akimbo and ask:
why must his eyes be so dark? so lashy?
