milah

This sake tastes

like cake.

We’re back

at Goldrush,

where the pole dancer

with blue contacts

leans over the table,

her hands wet 

from perspiring glasses.

Her breasts are exposed

only slightly

through the cutout

on her dress.

She doesn’t pay attention to me

and I feel undesired.

I’d buy her a drink, too!

Fold fake yen bills into her sheer socks.

One of the boys I’m with

acquires two numbers:

hers, and another dancer’s,

who tells me she wants to dance in New York,

but is too skinny.

Back at the ryokan,

the boy tells us the dancer is coming over.

It feels like we are at summer camp

or jail

or an orphanage,

all the men spread out on mats.

The only other girl and I share a room just down the hall,

and the hotel employee frowns

as we enter the boys room.

Presumptuously,

we imagine the dancer coming 

is the one aspiring for New York,

a city I’m trying to escape.

Blue eyes walks in, her natural brown eyes shining

and her peach milk skin 

completely covered by a silk black top and pant set.

I fall in love with her even more.