Saturday Night, Petite rue des Bouchers, Brussels
It's no joke when she says she'd like to be
electrocuted in a lightning strike.

She'll tell you with absolute certainty that she
lusts after a good jolt like most people lust
over flesh or booze,

personally, she says,
she never touches the stuff,
neither men, nor booze, too messy
she says, too complicated – she after all
she is free of complication, devoid of bone
and matter, merely molecule and joint pain.

She tells men to call her, but she gives
them fake numbers, remembering when
she was younger how a smelly boy put his
arm over her shoulder, told her he already
had a girlfriend, but, he liked her better.

When I knew here she was shaded near
the topiary shrubs, sipping hot water
in a street café, the neon of the streets
bouncing off the cobblestones and exploding
on her cheekbones like some well lit
scene from a novel I might have read on
the plane, something I would have left
in another country, never something to
take home.

I watch the men watch her, scribble in
character sketches into the ledger
I keep on hand, write down words she
uses like: ambivalent, morphology,
gender chaos, hate-fuck.

She thinks of herself as a starfish
some spoiled child plucked from
the shoreline too soon, a greedy
kiss stealing her last gulps of air.