Spring 2010

Elevators

por Jennifer Yeatts

always made the list of everywhere
you wanted to have sex.  That private
air, smudge of sweaty fingertips
on the mirrored wall, just to get
away with it.  When you rode
them as a child you never spoke
until you landed at the lobby. The smell,
you said—like your mother’s bedroom
or a silent film you had the poster for
but never saw.

You have better words for scent now,

but still you stand in silence, straining to ignore
the gaze of every eye or better yet
to catch a spy mid-stare.  Paisley ties for lion
tamers, any kind of fur
for corporate wives.  Facing the door,

a redhead shifts her weight from hip to hip
and glosses floppy curls behind a curve
of ear.  A tailored skirt slit too high
for CEO, too low for hairstylist.  Knees
gleaming like peaches in the bubbled light.

Next to her a mess of hockey
hair, a pair of well-lashed irises.  Ears
you want to lick.  He presses four.  You’ve already
committed to six and so you watch him go
with your sticky breath. When you’re the only one

on board you jump during lurches down
the shaft.  But then others sidle in, forcing
you to zip your smug. You wonder if they
guess your life the way you estimate
how many birdfeeders they own, the names
for childhood pets, the fabric of their sheets.