by Kirsty Logan

the next one sidles up, her skirt showing legs straight

as a daisy stem. you spread your arms crucifixion-

style along the back of the booth, your face glittered

with piercings, your pint halfway, your pool cue

standing to attention. she displays her teeth and the soft

flesh under her clavicle. she tilts onto your lap, rests

her bangled arm across your shoulders. she says jukebox

mixers singular. you do not say. she presses out her lips,

eyes the cue. a better option winks past and she slips

off your lap and back into the fray. your leather jacket

zip has left a row of teethmarks on her arm. your gaze

flickers, then you look around for the next one and