BY ADINA LASSER
Janet read a story in my kitchen,
little whispets of chalk
stuck in her teeth. I made aspic
in the sink, listened to her speak.
Janet watched her lover starside my palm.
At a party we danced together, sexless.
She speaks to me of bay leaves, her mother’s silver
of never wanting children.
Janet was a virgin until she wasn’t.
After that there was no name for her.