Somewhere in Singapore 

there’s a video of me lap dancing 

a British businessman, 

and I remember him fondly, 

ordering Pellegrino for us 

outside the club for a cooldown, 

saying to me, You really are 

the world’s most adorable girl, 

stroking my cheek, me at 

twenty-three, a real minx 

in a borrowed Gucci dress, 

and daddy, daddy, daddy, 

once you learn seduction, 

you know everything 

there is to know about life, 

or as the French say, 

losing your virginity 

is equivalent to shedding 

your stupidity, 

and after fish and chips, 

he hugs me goodnight, 

escorting me back inside, 

a face that looks younger 

than the forty he claims, 

but why would he lie about that, 

those big macho arms, 

that really can’t protect me— 

no, I don’t want you to protect me 

ever, I want to stand outside, 

smoke a cigarette, 

yes, I know I have asthma, 

and more importantly, 

I’d rather have the perfect 

woman than the self-proclaimed 

Adonis—1999 Fabio 

attacked by a goose 

on the Busch Gardens Apollo 

rollercoaster     I’m so sorry 

about your face.

 

I’m not your baby doll,

or that heartbreaking 

Batman villain who never

grows up, trapped 

in the funhouse of mirrors

until she stumbles upon

her own reflection 

aged naturally forever 

or what about Phoebe

Cates’ Linda from Fast Times 

locked eternally in that

topless waterfall scene before 

she devours Judge

Reinhold: replay replay

replay 

that VHS from the last

Blockbuster on Earth, 

and it’s tragic, 

and my garter’s not for you

to strip, and I never 

gave you or your boy 

permission to film

me— no, I’m not

whoring 

in Singapore. 

I’m just having 

the most amount of fun

a girl can have 

in a Gucci dress.