by Johanna Colaizzi



on the bus. 1:25pm. thought about fashioning a hairshirt for myself to wear
in the summer
just for the shits and giggles
i will wear my hairshirt to your performances
and sweat blood onto the cool lacquered
surface of the faux wood tables, clouded
with layers of sanitizing spray.
tokens of self flagellation
flatter your stage
in spurts. they slink down
the low ceilings. the scent

my visage, uncommon
in its pallor, meets yours
it’s like you’ve seen a ghost
or some sipping spectre
shaking its chains
between sets. congratulatory,
of course, but seen as
a farce. or is it force?
of reckoning. undue reminder
we are the
same inside. i
know your shoe size
much wider than mine.
i have entered and exited your front door
throughout various lifetimes. and in
my hairshirt i will pay penance,
pine for your scorpion sting,
sit at the bar
and order another drink.


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