Leora Fridman


All Day I Shopped For a Way




to say, hallelujah, you unfamiliar courtesans,
I have prepared all of this for you
even before I could know I was loving,
before I could know I wanted cloth drawn
across my eyes. Hello, sexy little cardigan:
you have become a waste. In other trashes
than my trash there is no clothing, but in this fantasy
we have to rid ourselves of so much. I would prefer
no one were chatting me up on such a cautious occasion,
but there you have it: our sweat is the part of us
that can still be free. It is the sweat of animals
who distribute a continuous amount of virtue
across their uncovered skins and in so doing hope
against hope not to overheat. There is so little real
caution we need. When they tell me dogs sweat
through their paws, I am still thinking of ways
to drape attraction across another face. I am not
just another look. I am not performing what
you can and cannot allow. Any four-legged
mammal can find you that. No, here by the ledges
and porcelain shards, I am standing to greet
the cloth-like morning as it rises so familiar
over shops. I am tossing one more dollar
out to you.