She sits across from you at the group-work table in all her flesh
a coat of giant cold chicken skin
she can't figure how to take off.

A cow chewing cud
would be less offensive than the way she grinds
that gum with mouth, a hole slapping
against itself in fleshy clicks.

She is heavy, whipping cream-
colored thighs each time she slaps a hand down in laughter.

The chest is pouring out in all of it's hypnotic paleness;
the dark colored shirt is giving its all, but failing against the strain.

Your adrenaline courses in nausea
as she moves her legs apart,
veins radiation-blue,
mashed potato inner thighs,
and suddenly
you've peaked behind the curtain
the poison fish you see
makes you *****.