In My Other Lives
By Hollie Dugas
I am a woman in a Toulouse-Lautrec
painting. I am someone you do not know
but want to, a charming passenger
on a yellow boat calmly looking to sea.
I am kissing someone in bed, afraid to let go.
I am the woman at the table drinking up
all the absinthe. I am made to look good
in those big floppy hats. I am young
and shirtless, a woman of contour
adjusting my tights as if it were magic, as if
I have always just come back from soft colorful
nights of dance. When I remove my clothes,
I am glamourless, toes tangling
into fishnets, caught in the peripheral
moment after a passion.