Jennifer Dixon
Untitled
“I’d like to buy
that bottle of perfume.”
The box with a picture of vanity
with a celebrity attached at the ragged
edges; a maggot in diaphanous clothes.
I don’t care that they paid Brazilian
children two cents and hour
to crush peonies between
their bleeding, calloused
fingers and charge
me fifty dollars
an ounce…
I want
to smell
like
a
star.
“And how you will pay
today? Cash, check or charge?”
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