The Woman in the Bag

[gretagarbled]

The woman in the bag is not me
but sometimes, I am her.

She’s all carmine and kohl,
fishnets and heels,
snake eyes and smiles.
The smooth velvet of her dress
makes mountains of her breasts
and a valley of her sides.

You will smell her before you hear her,

(vanilla, roses and a whiff of something musty,
like clothes long unworn,
like books kept unread,
like bones left untouched)

and you will hear her before you see her.

(click, click, click, click
that sound is the safety coming off,
the knife being tapped on the counter
the grenade unpinned)

A god’s bones wrapped in fat,
I’m gussied up, tied in,
pushed down, pushed out,
lips blowjob wet and blood red,
eyes dark and mean,
all seen through a soft-focus haze.

I squash and hide my guts,
I drown my odours,
paint over flaws and then paint them again.
I draw on a smile and I line out a wink.
I slip on my shoes and balance tiptoe on knives,
tits thrust up and out,
arse wobbling out a mating call.
I have put on the woman’s skin and I fly,
I fly, floating on the gazes,
lighter than air and sweeter than sin.

The woman in the bag is not me
but sometimes, I am her.