No Pygmalion found me
floating above the saloon
tethered to nothing but the love of men

that little red string
a nerve ending
that loops on your wrist like a bangle

I was a veritable opium den
a lust unction a pleasure banshee
a cipher a bedpost

Truth is
I replicated myself nightly
like a needle hitting a record

I escaped in a Venus husk
with a strong profile
like Cleopatra on a coin

I swaddled her in muslin
placed corsets on my hair eyes thighs and feet
Once inside I was like a key

under a tchotchke
a two-way mirror
a swiveling bookcase

But I can do one better
I’ll divide into my goats and sheep
and distill into a soiled dove

and a makeshift matron
neat as a pair of salt and pepper shakers
named like a fork in the road