I WANT LOUBOUTIN HEELS

I want Louboutin

heels with those trademark red soles,

I want them sexy, I want them high.

I want them slingback and peep-toed 

so I can flash the purple polish 

on my tootsies.

 

 I want to wear them out of the store, just

you try and stop me. 

 

I want to wow them on 

Washington, saunter past C&O Trattoria  

and Nick’s Liquor Mart, those bottles of Stoli

stacked in the window, calling my name, past the 

summer-clad tourists in December, shivering,  

barefoot, like LA has no winter.

 

In those shoes I’m hot,  

stop-a-truck hot, prettiest 

girl in school hot, and this

time, I know it. 

Flaunt it. Hell, I own it. In those shoes I can  

pick and choose, not settle for some loser.  

Not drink away regrets, pound back Stoli at  

Chez Jay’s, flash their scarlet bottoms when I kneel. 

 

I’ll wear them like my own flesh,

like hooves, like sin.

I’ll keep their secrets, won’t spill

where they’ve been.

 

Better those shoes with their lurid soles

than you with yours.

 

 

©Alexis Rhone Fancher 2013. First published in BoySlut,

nominated for a Pushcart Prize, 2013

Tonight I Will Dream Of Anjelica, My First Ex-Girlfriend, Who Taught Me The Rules Of The Road…

Anjelica comes on to me like a man, all slim-hipped swagger, relentless, dangling

that red, ‘57 T-Bird at me like dessert. Lemme take you for a ride, chica, she sez

after acting class. I figure what’s the harm, but Ms Angel Food gets out of hand. I

don’t count on her heart-shaped ass, or those brown nipples crammed in my mouth.

I don’t count on the Dial-O Matic four-way, power leather seats, the telescoping

steering wheel, or the frantic pleasure of her face between my thighs. I admit, I’ve

always been driven to sin. But Anjelica’s far from blameless. She rides me hard,

week after week, double clutches me into ecstasy, hipbone against hipbone, the

dulcet, lingering groan of our gears, grinding. When I confess the affair to my

boyfriend he jacks himself off in the galley kitchen, comes all over his unattainable

fantasies. He says he doesn’t consider sex between women to be cheating, and begs

me to set up a threesome. I tell him the T-Bird’s a two-seater, and watch his face fall.

I could end it, but why? All I can say is, I want her for myself. All I can say is, I’m

a die-hard romantic. Anyone I do, I do for love.

 

©Alexis Rhone Fancher 2015.

First published in The Pittsburgh Poetry Review, Dec. 2015

The First Time I Made Cousin Lisa Come

We’d been playing doctor for months by then,

her huge breasts a magnet, her soft mons

 

a refuge from my impending adolescence. Some

nights, unable to dream, I’d touch myself like Lisa,

 

replay the us, hidden between twin beds in her pink,

frou frou bedroom, my aunt across the hall, making dinner,

 

the door half open, my fingers three thick in her daughter’s

pussy, the pin point of Lisa’s nipple stuffed in my mouth.

 

I’d suck. She’d moan. I’d explore. She’d explode. 

It was the most powerful I’d ever be. 

 

The first time I made cousin Lisa come

we looked into each other’s aloneness; the boys

 

who didn’t want us yet, the girls who shunned us

like they saw something we didn’t.

 

When I let myself remember:

me: on my knees, between the beds,

 

the feast of Lisa spread before me,

her steady rocking against my wrist

 

the rug burn that my knees endured

a penance, prepaid.

 

©Alexis Rhone Fancher, 2014, First published in Bloom

WHITE FLAG

On Edward Hopper's painting, "Morning Sun," 1952

 

 

No one paints loneliness like he does. Those half-clad women by the bed, on

the floor, hunched over, staring out the window, in profile or from behind,

always clean lines, such worshipful light. The gas station in the middle of

nowhere, estranged couples on the bright-lit porch after dark. Even the boats

sail alone. And the diners. The hatted strangers, coming on to a redhead, a

moody blonde, all of them losers, all of them desperate for a second chance.

This morning the sunlight pried open my eyes, flooded our bedroom walls. I

sat alone, in profile on our bed in a pink chemise, knees drawn up, arms

crossed over my calves, staring out the window. Desperate for you. No one

paints loneliness like Edward Hopper paints me, missing you, apologies on

my lips. Come back. Stand below my window. Watch me beg for a second

chance. Downturned mouth, teary eyes, parted knees, open thighs, that famous

shaft of Hopper light a white flag, if only you could see.

 

©Alexis Rhone Fancher 2013, First published in H_NGM_N

FOR THE SAD WAITRESS AT THE DINER IN BARSTOW

beyond the kitchen’s swinging door,

beyond the order wheel and the pass-through piled 

high with bacon, hash browns, biscuits and gravy,

 

past the radio, tuned to 101.5-FM

All Country - All the Time,

past the truckers overwhelming the counter,

all grab-ass and longing.

 

in the middle of morning rush you’ll 

catch her, in a wilted pink uniform,

coffee pot fused in her grip, staring over

the top of your head 

 

you’ll follow her gaze, out the fly-specked, plate 

glass windows, past the parking lot,  

 

watch as she eyes those 16-wheelers barreling 

down the highway, their mud guards 

adorned with chrome silhouettes of naked women

who look nothing like her.

 

the cruel sun throws her inertia in her face.

this is what regret looks like.

 

maybe she’s searching for that hot day in August 

when she first walked away from you.

 

there’s a choking sound

a semi makes, when it pulls off the

highway; that downshift a death rattle

she’s never gotten used to.

 

maybe she’s looking for a way back.

maybe she’s ready to come home.

 

(But for now) she’s lost herself

between the register and the door, the endless

business from table to kitchen, she’s

 

as much leftover as those sunny side eggs, 

yolks hardening on your plate.

 

©Alexis Rhone Fancher, 2016 First published in The San Pedro River Review