The Plagarist // Arlene Ang

[iatrogenicmyth]

She is two parts flesh
and one part secondhand clothing.
She presses her knee on the ground, like an ear.
She is rubbing the belly of a dead robin
and calling forth Lazarus.
She is all pretense, incomplete
as she watches the feet of passersby.
You are the background musician.
She gives you her hand.
She leaves tiny half-moons on your palm
as you pull her up.
Her nails are sharp, bared like barbwire.
I possess what I see every day, she says.
She could be your girl.
She tilts her head to the sun
and thus lengthens her shadow on the sidewalk.
You want to feed her to the people
she covets-to an atmosphere,
like Starbucks. You are hers to give away.
You put your two-dollar Rolex
in her pocket as she orders for you.
Later, when she warms
her fingers around your cup,
all she sees is thirst.
And how her lips have stained
the rim by the mere pressure
of her desire to drink.