The Clean Prostitute

by Amit Parmessur

Nothing’s moving, not even the slightest emotion
And I know it’s not something you lack

Really, there’s nothing moving on that visage
And there aren’t any calls on your dark phone. You are,
For me, one of those golden obelisks from Egypt,
Crying silently near the same bench, again, this evening

Getting more svelte and dazzling
With time in this world’s careless eyes
You’re the city’s most distinguished dais,
A stuffed Eiffel Tower,
One upon which men mount
to win trophies of their own shame; it’s October,

With no roads and no possibility of roads
I know I will not mount your clean mountain
As my Christmas gift of courage is still due
There is no way for me to get up there
For now, and no great means to stay too

You don’t seem not uninhabitable
You don’t have time for emotions
Do you, clean prostitute?

I know something wrong has carried those
Rainbow eyebrows, dispersing onto the British bridge
Of your delicate nose, that golden bun, those lips with a
Bizarre African curl into the tornado of promiscuity

In fact, I need no gift to say I should have loved you
so, when your mobile rings tonight,
you’ll recognize my breath

and something’ll move in you