Paige Quiñones

I PAY THE GIRL

on my lap a twenty,
press it between her breasts.
She winks, calls me honey.
In the corner, there is a man
and there is a woman lying
on the man like a skinned rabbit.
A silken animal barely
writhing to the song. I cannot
see her face, only loose
rings of hair, a slick back,
the bright soles of her feet.
I think of his wife undressing
for bed, wondering where he is.
Or perhaps he has no wife at all
and will unlock his door
to find a darker room.
His girl presses and presses
against him with no urgency;
this man has come before,
will be here long
after I’m gone. I call over
the nearest girl, her faux fur
boots shining. I fold a dollar
into her waist, run
my hands over her breasts.
She tells me they’re real.

SUMMER, OR DAUGHTERS I HAVEN’T MET

Heaven is a river

                  filled with flat stones, girls

lining the bank,

                  skipping rocks.

As I pass each one

                  and touch her curls,

I see her future

                   unfurled

in my palm:

                   first kiss,

missing breasts,

                   whiskey breath.

Sons. Some have none.

                    They’ve all got

my June-dark skin

                    and mouths that

can’t quite close.

                    One girl catches

sight of her fate,

                    steps further

into the white water,

                    begs me to hold her under.

Please, she says.

                     I don’t want to be born.

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