Poetry By Sonya Wohletz

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Poem for all my stripper selves

Purse first, ass last—that’s how the saying goes. 

I had plenty of the latter, still waiting for the former 
to manifest itself in rhinestone glory. I’d carry it
around proudly, flashing it under the candy-orange glow 
of these bad American streetlights,
looking fly with my good shoes, my good vines.

Now all I can think about is time I wasted.
What I needed was a good rundown of the game,
a learning in pimpology. A certain science
that I was too dense to receive.

The Broca’s area of the brain--
that is what failed me ultimately,
and all these stripper selves—well, they
could hardly make up for my defects,
hanging out in the coat room,
the bathroom, touching up their makeup, sharing cigarettes,
shots of vodka, hair spray, lotion, etc.

I gotta keep them off the other stuff, especially girl #1,
my bottom—she’s bipolar and if she gets
a hold of any blow she’ll be manic for centuries.
I picked her up at the old man’s bar in Gretna, LA,
just across the river from New Orleans--
she was so pretty I know she could’ve made bands
on Bourbon, but I was only passing through. She
mesmerized me: the way she languored around
the bar, lazily flirting. The madams (I am told)
had to pick her up and drive her around. And
she would only give lap dances to guys she liked.

In Gretna turns out those were far and few in between.

I liked her best twisted up on booze and the silk
straps of her lingerie slipping down her long arm. High
breasts and ass dimpled like summer-warm cantaloupe.

My second: I found her in Quito, Ecuador, on the
North side of the city where all the businessmen
sneak away to get some extra at their lunch hour—un buen tigrillo. 
That girl liked to party, and she was a good dancer.
I remember once we drove up
to my friend’s estancia in Cotocollao,
and she tried to get me to go to the mushroom lady.
I told her, I wouldn’t do that with her—no way I’d
send for a vision with a woman that could already
read minds. Just sitting with her I felt like I was in ceremony.
And even my father, the old astrologer, confirmed
that she was gifted in a strange and frightening way.

She since has given up trying to please me and
has decided to finally go for her MFA. Needless to
say, she doesn’t bring any money in these days.

Now I’ve got this tired female who dances in Lakewood, WA
for $20s—she’s a single mom and she has had it with men
and maybe with life, but she’s got no choice but to
keep on dancing. She is faithful, doesn’t complain,
and always turns over 90% of her C-notes, just like I ask.
She’s lost some of her sparkle, but she doesn’t have to try hard either--
these old soldiers here don’t seem to ask for much
and they are all scared of the law. 

And though she hasn’t made me rich, I have to thank her,
this last one—who by day works the scales
at the garbage dump North of town
for to keep the four of us steady—steady, that’s a
word I haven’t said out loud in a long time, as in:

Steady these four directions,
Steady pulse, steady on the trigger,
steady and humid like a Greyhound headed
southbound in July ‘til you hit I-5
before heading East back home. Steady as in:

Keep it steady, keep it steady, let it slide, 
let it slide a little
further, honey—who knows, maybe
you’ll be a star someday.

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Sonya Wohletz (she/hers) is a poet whose work has appeared in Latin American Literary Review, Blue Unicorn, Neologism, Aftershock Review, and many others. Her first book, Bir Sıra Sonra/One Row After, was published in 2022 by First Matter Press, and her second book, +Milklings+, is currently on pre-order with South Broadway Press. She now serves as the Poet Laureate of Lacey, Washington.
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