APERTURE

She stopped taking pictures of herself,
and so did her ego.

She did everything twice, including
duplicity. It was

either the year they’d electrocuted
the Rosenbergs, or

it wasn’t. A simple proposition, he said,
and out in the open

like an exchange of currency on street
corners. She’d given

up her dream of a bus ride to California,
a career as a costume

designer. But she still had footprints
on her receipts,

and a half-open bag of gummy bears.
Disappointment

was a dish best served on fine china.
She was dessert.

A la carte or a la mode? It didn’t matter.
She just wanted

to be undressed on top of the table.
She could pose

under the hot lamps, hold her smile,
even when her breasts

started to melt. She could press a cherry
between her teeth,

still as a tremble fox all day, if it meant
his mint green slippers.




Jay Robinson teaches Creative Writing at Ashland University. He's also Co-Editor-in-Chief/Reviews Editor for Barn Owl Review. Poems have appeared in 32 Poems, Anti-, The Laurel Review, and The North American Review, among others.