Supine was I, diagonal, set upon the table,
eyes frozen, fixed upon two paper lanterns—
suspended like dirigibles: Crest white
and cash green. Still, but more in motion
than I who lay below, shivering, lying,
telling myself two hundred dollars matter.
You plucked fish from fans splayed
across my refrigerated skin; you prodded
sand dollar shells shielding my aching nipples;
and you laughed about my brazen vulnerability.
I’ll answer now your bass and tenor speculation,
the “why does she?” of my nyotaimori
When you push away, bellies full, balls starving,
if my talents are inferior, why did you pay me?
