Poetry: Dylan Thomas Was Dead
by Katie NaoumSo we said "fuck it" and got the jalapeno poppers with cream cheese and American.
Four cigarettes later and the Australian is shoving his eye balls down Julie's shirt—enjoying the images she describes of when she got strip searched going over the Ambassador Bridge. Deep squats. No—deeper.
We drink the half-full vodka tonics drunker girls leave unattended on our table. Forward reeling—I am a sparkling, giggling monster. An explosion of hair and teeth, dripping orchid into the piles of cherry stems we have man-made.
Well lubed and sweating, we burst the door like the cowboys we were sure of. Smoking cigarette after cigarette with our hands in our pockets, squinting down Hudson. If we had been men, we would have been the only ones in the bar without ties on. We ran through all the money. We crystallized the table. We were sugared to the max and waiting for room to lose its cool.
Katie Naoum, originally from Michigan, now lives in Brooklyn. She is an MFA candidate at the New School where she also works for the magazine LIT.
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