is invisible
she is a ghost who gets manicures
only to dig her nails into the adam’s apples
of her descendants
I can hear her tsk tsk
in the silence
when I sit with my legs apart
apparently the way my denim jeans
embrace my inner thighs
is an invitation I send
with no intended recipients
no identifying email address
bcc-ed to fully grown
professional strangers
who know better
but fall prey to the scam of
a mass corporate email
to a dinner
where I am the appetizer in some part
and the entire feast in another time zone
I want none of this