by Mary Winters
She of the overlong kisses and fat arms
is gone—though I loved her.
I’ll miss her orange blossom scent.
The silly things she crocheted for me.
The way the phone excited her.
The day she snuck me in Mass.
Her son is a singer—a shouter!
Calls me to watch the “doggy position”
(which I made up with Toinette).
On the street they laugh: “a rat
on a leash”—they mistake me
for a dachshund, I am fatter.
They say let’s see the Mexican
hat dance; aren’t you afraid
his eyes will pop out?
He strokes my ears flat
—I lick the plates.
In summer we sleep together
on the fire escape with her dying
house plants. Fan and a radio
on the sill. Paradise the smell
from the shishkebob wagon; to bark
at the cops while he scratches my thighs.