NORTH POLE MISSIVE

I want a grown toy
with a bald spot like chrome

and pecs I can bounce
my breasts off of.

the hinge my life’s
waiting for.

a mini-chow, in a chow
purse made of snake, which,

if alive, would swallow it
irreversibly.

I want stilettos made of Stilettos
so I can walk like an indelible

automaton doll.
I have not yet mentioned

hanging baskets.
I have not yet mentioned

pecs—no, I mentioned the pecs—
marzipan. You may have heard

I need a teapot. Need lavish spectacles.
Someone may have told you

I like to do the electric slide.
That one’s not a prompt, it’s talent.

 MEMO TO A CO-WORKER

I want to make out with you this minute. Leave

our office for the empty warehouse down the block.

Pin me to the drywall and roll up your sleeves.

Once I was demure; only had eyes for Accountant Steve

till you moved down the hall. Now other men are schlocks.

I had to meet you that first minute.  It tore me to leave

and walk back to data entry.  The way you received

mail—fingered the envelope flat before slitting its caulk—

pinned me to the wall.  Roll up your sleeves

I’d chant from my post at the water cooler, thighs cleaved

by the sight of your open New Yorker.  I’ve slipped an ad-hoc

request to undress in your mailslot. Snap and I’d leave

Sam, my on-again-boy-next-door manfriend—who peeves

me by whistling Disney—who reads only headlines and clocks.

Pin me to the wall, holler Lorca, then roll up your sleeves.

The elevator is here. Ground floor.  Don’t think. Qui vive.

Jump-the-fence-round-the-corner, back room:  dust flocks.

Touch me this minute or I’ll black out.  All self-control leaves.

Pin me to the wall, my legs at your waist. I’ll roll up your sleeves.

Laurel Bastian has work in Margie, Cream City Review, Nimrod and other journals, was a finalist for the Ruth Lilly Fellowship, and teaches creative writing at a prison in Oregon, WI. She’s a lover, not a fighter. 

Photo on main page by Jennifer Bastian.