Orange on the Nail
A new poem
by Natalie Shapero
Whatever is said to mate for life, doesn’t. Science once was awful at telling birds apart, took any speckled hen in the nest for the same one every time. Now we know more. See the shop where the model girls are ugly. This only happens at one store, and every time I’m there they offer me work. I say I work already, and they say where, as though I’ll soon be stolen. The fitting attendant is angry in sandals, kicking her toes. Look at this color, it’s wrong. It’s peach in the bottle, she says. Peach in the bottle, orange on the nail.
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