Eavesdropping on the Whore of Babylon
by Leigh Cuen
She pressed her phone against her ear,
veiled in frizzy red hair.
I don’t remember his name. The lover with the moustache.
She breathed cigarette smoke,
wriggling
gray and wisps of ash.
Blinked her tired eyes.
He said he missed me…
veiled in frizzy red hair.
I don’t remember his name. The lover with the moustache.
She breathed cigarette smoke,
wriggling
gray and wisps of ash.
Blinked her tired eyes.
He said he missed me…
Read the rest of this poem, featured in Fuck Art, Let’s Dance, published by Nostrovia! Poetry
