Issue 2, March 2009
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BirdGirl at the Club
Amy Newman
She travels sometimes to the club
where good music plays and the glasses slide
in sleek water on top of the bar. They hold columns of gin
soothed by sweet tonic and sweet flesh of limes
as if out of our skin. At the end of the bar,
a stare, fresh out of a man, his eyes kind of secret,
and his arms, out in front of him, covered with fur.
It's a party tonight, and the waitresses dress up
like angels, wear little white skirts, and wings
made of paper: paper wings.
Amy Newman
She travels sometimes to the club
where good music plays and the glasses slide
in sleek water on top of the bar. They hold columns of gin
soothed by sweet tonic and sweet flesh of limes
as if out of our skin. At the end of the bar,
a stare, fresh out of a man, his eyes kind of secret,
and his arms, out in front of him, covered with fur.
It's a party tonight, and the waitresses dress up
like angels, wear little white skirts, and wings
made of paper: paper wings.
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