She blooms blue
Inside the box,
Face turned upward demurely
With sightless eyes,
Blinded Greek by neon lights,
As I press damp fingers up against the glass,
Running them down to the silver drawer
Built into her left breast,
Cold against the glow from inside her body,
And further down to the drawers
In her stomach and knees,
I wonder what I’d keep in them,
These body drawers,
Mentally rummaging through my bag,
A handful of foreign coins,
One cent,
Two koruna ceska,
50 something from Slovakia,
Think I’d keep them in her stomach
(easiest to find in a hurry I think,
forgetting she’s got no arms),
As if the goddess of love would be stuck for 20p in a queue for the bus
Or counting the change for a packet of fags and pint of milk,
I imagine I’d keep her stomach empty,
An emergency space for hiding secrets,
Drugs, coded messages, diamonds-
W.W.D.D?
(What would Dali do?)
I think of his moustache and feel faintly ridiculous,
And lastly,
I finger my glass ring and decide
Her breast would be the perfect place
To keep rings –
And why not?
I wonder what I’d do with drawers
In my breast, stomach and knee
And,
Feeling hot under the spotlight
Above the box, I lean down
And scratch my knee,
Just in case.