Abigail tosses her head,
cornsilk hair pale and flowing as buttermilk
poured from a pail. She, about to go down,
flashes the camera one last smile,
assuring the acetate she is,
for this, up and more than up.
She knows the look the suckers crave:
Enthusiasm in the face of depravity,
eager, with the angriest of pricks,
to cram her buccal cavity.
Throws half a heart into the work,
through her mind her own movie playing
of re-arranging in her flat the furniture:
Slide the couch over to the window;
haul from the hall closet the throw-rug;
redo the kitchen orange…?
“Hey, Gail!” the director squawks.
“You’re losing us – keep the eyes open!”
And so Abigail sprays her heart with gilt,
sheathing the dagger, suppressing a gag –
baby-blues on the lens glued – to the hilt,
performing single-mindedly the job.