the girls i see are
angels
sitting around a bar
and laughing
like glass ground under
a steel-toed boot,
with manicured fingers
stirring glasses of
ambrosia
or down their throats
in the bathroom,
because they are not
your Renaissance girls,
harvest goddesses
with lips and cheeks
stained cherry-red.
nobody paints these girls,
their rouge is more
like blood.
they would sooner hang
from a rope, frayed and brown
than a bright museum wall,
for no mahogany frame, or
shining pedestal
knows the grace
of turning aimlessly on
vinyl swivel stools,
making small talk
while their feathers fall
one by one.