Zouzou

Ain’t of no kind word in what they’ve been telling you.

Heard they call you “Song Bird” these days. Part your beak

and collar the long part of neck with sapphires.

Girl, when are you going to see

you aren’t ever goin’ be one of them. Don’t mean a thing

they pour prosecco in porcelain dishes.

Let you lap leftovers from their palms. Do they pinch

your sides to regurgitate the slug of white cake, candied

roses, the baked breasts of hummingbirds?

Merchant the fetid smell of it into crystal?

I heard their trade ain’t much different

from what is done here at home. Only difference

is they prefer their Black rare and chilled over ice,

fine caviars knifed from the ovaries of the South.

Maybe at night you prowl the Turkish rugs.

Dressed in Schiffli lace, an ankle ribbon tagging

you rare specimen. Do they call you beautiful

for one of your kind? Pocket your songs

and measure your skin for couture.

And for who do you think it will make

statement when worn to the Grand Palais Garnier?