Its betrayal totalitarian—
skin dry as parchment
lit by the slightest brush.
The scent in our
sheets sets off chimes,
a measure until you
The minutes I swallow whole.
Castro, you've nothing in Cuba like my desire.
My body's capitalism,
greedy. It's a slow-jam
in a darkened room
keeping time with a DJ.
Its lyric, the blue light of aging shadows
desire's waking. Ten years from now
we'll wonder at this
my body's exacting power
brooking no opposition.
Originally published in Copper Nickel.
My Body as The Tropicana Nightclub, 1952
My body’s Arcos de Cristal lined
in licentious points of light.
It’s the crème de la crème and the güempa.
It’s a legendary simmer.
¡Mami estás matandome!
It’s Latin Jazz syncopation.
The trumpets hold its melody.
Roulette, Baccarat, Craps, 21—
my body, the flashy casino of beauty.
It’s the showgirl girdled in orchids
between sets, and it’s her sequins’ shimmer.
Its bolero—lie to me, tell me you love me, even if I know you don’t.
Originally published in North American Review.
Suzanne Frischkorn is the author of Lit Windowpane (2008), Girl on a Bridge (2010), and five chapbooks, most recently American Flamingo (2008). She serves as an assistant editor for Anti-.