A girl pops out of a cake at the American Legion —
legend has it she came with the building.
In a fever dream she tells me a lyrebird can precisely mimic
the sound of a crying baby. She must know
a thing or two about slick talk and flattery
from handsome soldiers with medals on their jackets,
smooth like a cicada’s hum on the first syrupy warm night of the year —
sweet at first, then sickly so, she shuts the window
even though she liked the breeze and sleeps easy next to him
knowing she’ll be gone by Sunday. Her mama told her
to keep some walking money on her, in case she’d have to go.
She hides it behind her good silk in the top drawer,
under a bottle of perfume she got in town. French, she says.
And asks me if I knew that Cleopatra would douse the sails
of her ships in her fragrance so people could smell her arrival
long before she made land. Somewhere green, with girls
braiding flowers in their hair. They don’t feel the eyes…
Somewhere between the good place and the place that can never be.