Cassandra Dallett occupies Oakland, CA. Cassandra writes of a counter culture childhood in Vermont and her ongoing adolescence in the San Francisco Bay Area. She has published in Slip Stream, Sparkle and Blink, Hip Mama, Bleed Me A River, Criminal Class Review, Enizagam among many others. Look for links and chapbooks on cassandradallett.com
All night I think I’m super fly
I’m off a pill, heels sky high like my head
imagine my waist small enough to be circled by his big brown mitts
I’m just too cute to be 43
hair waved just right short bangs hand cut in the bathroom
bleach job brings back youth
I feel so fucking beautiful in the car singing old school jams
seat tilted back freeway’s concrete walls wizz by
the driver is as high as I
the romance of San Francisco’s city lights give way
then mall land
ratcheting by freeway construction faded white lines
and he’s too close to the wall
but I can’t die now and If I do at least I’ll be feeling this good.
At Motel 6
me and him, we’ve been here before
Samoans are fighting in the parking lot
and I clack on by in my ridiculous stilettos
hooker boots I bought off strippershoes.com
they had to come out of the closet sometime
in the Motel mirror
my red eyes stare back
hair gone to frizz
cellulite and veins released from too tight pants
skin breaking out red and glaring in the harsh light
my meat released from a girdle looks like a scene from the butchers
no video vixen no slim seductress
Oh Motel 6 get some softer lights some bigger towels
my fat feet and the ecstasy are wearing down
but sleep don’t come we’ve soaked the bed in baby oil and Hennessy
the smoke detector lays disconnected by the bed
weed smoke thick and sweet
and I have to work in the morning
will tip toe wide eyed
past your door.
His dick is church.
I didn’t grow up with religion
have only been to church
for work and funerals
Having never been much,
it’s awkward, I stand not knowing the hymns
stare at the glowing cross
ponder the millions I move through
who adorn themselves with this simple symbol
back lit and menacing it gives us something to hang on
Just for a minute, I understand the warmth of the thing
something opens up in me, the need;
for ritual, and belief, for community.
and the pastor makes us laugh, like we belong
Still, I think his love is conditional
we must love Jesus and put some money on the plate
Hey I got nothing against Jesus, I mean isn’t he a hippie kid like me?
But I keep my money in my pocket
and stick to my more practical claim of spiritual not religious.
I have to tell you though,
there is a time when Jesus won’t stay out of my mouth
I’ve never read the bible and the only testifying
I’ve done is when this man is inside me
suddenly God and Jesus pour out of me
oh God, Oh Jesus, Oh Please, Oh God It’s Good!
With him I feel faith on my knees
that beatific thing in my mouth
I am fervent-fervid, a zealous believer
Porn playing on the screen, round ass’s bounce sacrosanct
Bodies in a cathedral, his skin coco-colored, smooth to taste
He touches me places and I am born again.
I am devotional, his hands on my throat.
He holds himself against my cervix
he’s found a space in me no one ever has
hallowed be my adoration.
I will return here on my off days,
when his girlfriend and my man are working
prostrate myself for it,
speak in tongues,
catch the spirit,
turn myself over to the flesh
in all it’s ravenous hunger.