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Lynn Crosbie
From:   Pearl. in Queen rat: new and selected poems. Toronto: Anansi, 1998. p.83-4.

Make your mind what you want it to be.
—Curtis Mayfield

Tired of waiting for him, I think of a plan to stick it to the
Man -- he waylaid me with promises: protection, his valuable keys.
Nights of seduction, I would glide to the curb in my customized Eldorado,
black finish and cool bubble top

and turn it over to a superyoung girl with rags and a bucket of soapy
water, with a smile and a dead president, make it shine my sister.
He is inside listening to Curtis, his sapphire ring

he brings the moon with him, this cat, and his eyes glow like
mellow stones at my superfly threads. The cashmere white-stitched suit,the
maxi-coat trimmed in fox fur: vixen,

my pretty little hat with three blue feather plumes. I let him dig me
         for a while,
and lay a kiss, a spoon of cocaine on him, our secret meetings
a potent rush and I am hip to the hit to his fly hand on my thigh,

my ladies scatter in a cloud of Opium and he tells me,
you know me, I'm your friend.

I thought he was my man -- I flash on him in the bathtub, its ledge of
         oils in flasks,
pulling a loofah sponge over my tired shoulders, passing a reefer
         in lemon paper,

on all the tired bitches working his keys, hustling his diamond rocks —
two sets of false eyelashes, micro-minis, freezing their asses off.

My .25 Beretta can't stop him, it's not real, I'm not real to him. He'll
use me up and kill me; I need brains guts and cool;
I put fur on your back, my baby, he says.

I am between him and death, the greatest high of all, and I ask him
         to step outside.
The pink flakes blow my mind and I turn to him with a flurry
         of karate kicks,
kicking out my left leg I bring him to the ground

and with my foot on the collar of his mohair suit I tell him, I took your
money and signed a contract on you: I hired the best killers there are

men like you -- yeah, if one hair on my gorgeous head is harmed it's
          all over for you
It's all over for you, I think, as I imagine I am Superfly; my mind is
         what I want it to be,
the Man is tired and suddenly he looks

Old, very, very old as he turns away from me, the things he cannot dream
my brazen plans, my body full of love.

Lynn Crosbie's works copyright © to the author.

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