Two-hundred and Forty-two: Sarasvati

Party after party, I tattoo my name on my mask.
Don’t forget it! Sarasvati.
Blind? Touch me and read it in braille.
There. Full breast, empty chest.
I am a windmill out of tune.
Watch my arms flicker around the room;
staccato gestures like broken swan wings.
Sucking you in.

I am thankful for my mask;
look at me multi-task!

One hand flattens a page from today.
Don’t talk to me while I’m writing the past!
Fuck blood, fuck meat, fuck bones.
Inside I am complicated scriptures of my history.

One hand holds a conch full of malt whiskey.
I drink until I am a sea breeze and my words wave together,
tickling your pants like anemones. Thirty-three drops to a smile.
Scotch courage. Don’t judge me!
Groping a grape tree reminds me of my roots.

One hand licks lip-stick onto smirking lips.
I smear promises onto your collar,
bedroom eyes hollering warnings:
in the morning, you will wake up alone.

One hand waxes my sunglasses. Wait!
Mirrored condoms for the soul.
I pinball my eyes until they are back on.
If you read me, I will be a desperate tortoise with a useless hard shell.
This why I ring the bell. Alright! I can look at you again!

I am Sarasvati.
I have hands for everything.
Except someone else.

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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

5 thoughts on “Two-hundred and Forty-two: Sarasvati”

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