Lena Judith Drake is the editor-in-chief of *Breadcrumb* *Scabs*magazine (http://www.breadcrumbscabs.com). More information and previous publications can be found at her personal website (http://lenajudith.sedentarygecko.com).

Three Poems (April 20, 2010. Issue 16.)

Kissing the Bearded Lady

I had always reminded myself with scratch and bleed stubble
that it was man's mouth I was kissing, men with lips softer
than my own: flaking with crumbs and detached nerves,
too much chapping, nibbling, dry furnace air.

I had always plucked the single dark hair on the epicenter
of my chin, a tiny dash of black Maori paint, pulled
with tweezers, or twisting fingernails in public,
desperate to be only eyelashes.

But the Bearded Lady I cannot confuse.

Her beard is long enough to tuck in her turtleneck sweater,
and conditioned smooth.
Sweaters give me migraines, I say, and she touches my hand.
Her palms smell like watermarking, paper money from the act.

She licks my dry lips wet, then holds the bottom in her mouth,
so the cold air won't reach it.
I'm not kissing hirsutism, I'm kissing a woman,
no mix-ups there, soft body, all legs for hardness.

The circus fires behind my closed eyes are like the flashing lights
of my dying sight under rubbing palms.
How I create my own sparklers.
The old imprints stay when I open my eyes.

And anyway, she has beautiful eyelashes.

Visit

I am in your mother's house, dreaming of urine on a man's pouted lip,
dreaming of you confessing you have an 11 year old daughter,
dreaming of my dad slicing fingers and cake for me,
and everything is perfect.
That's why I dream. Maybe I am still worried.

You are only an inch taller than me.
Your dad is shorter. Your grandpa was even shorter.

But I'm sure they still towered,
at least when you were little.

Your mother lets us sleep in the same bed together,
where a single hair from my head
goes up your nose, and you sneeze in your sleep.
I whisper things into your neck, warm on the tip of my cold nose.

Your mother won't let us bathe together, but I watch you shower anyway
while she's at work.
I use your brother's body wash, and shave blind for the beach.
You tie boy scout knots into my laundry garbage bags,
and pinch me in all the right places.

I am happy here, in your mother's house.
I will miss you.

I dread calling my mother already.
This summer, I will change diapers under minimum wage.
I will buy a doorknob with a lock with my first paycheck.
My leg will drape over bunched up blankets and a lumped pillow,

but we will be okay, I think.

Not because we're in love,
but because it's you.

Alan's Amen (The Hostel)

Jezzebel, it says on the doors, Alan's Amen, permanent marker
on powdering white paint.

A vending machine in the kitchen: Funyuns,
lumpy, crushed packs of cigarettes
in a tidy row along the bottom, three unwrapped tampons
tied together with a rubber band,
no price labels and the electrical wire
fraying. Black condoms
in plastic fishtanks in the bathrooms.
Faces in plaster sculpture, screaming,
beaded scarecrow limp, girls
on the open windows to the past-midnight streets.

Angie's private room, painted devils with ischemia,
pointed trident erections, and a single white lampshade.

The showers with see-through curtains, rust circles, fresh piss stains.

The pool has an alligator, but clear water.

A woman we don't know, sleeping
in our bare mattress room.

In the morning,
I walk barefoot on jeweled tile.