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Neo-Noir Girlfriend Tries to Replace Me 

Karyna McGlynn & Fez Avery | Poetry

We sit in the dark movie palace, bottle-blonde 
& conjoined at the armrest. She pulls 
a black mass from her purse. A gun. No— 
a wig. Her breath is hot in my ear: I want to  
be called Anastasia, she says. I won’t be
a single syllable. The movie goes: two girls 
fighting to the death, pow pow, the late 90s 
hitches like a cola can in the freezer. 

We argue on the porch of our shotgun house. 
I try to lock her out but she’s hidden 
my key. She keeps appearing behind  
the venetian blinds, switching eyes at me.  
Like if I so much as glow 
or shrink, she’ll snatch 
my face & use it to fool Mother. 

She snugs a finger under my wig cap,  
snaps it back. You love me, she says, like  
she grew up with fur refrigerator handles 
& did pastel drugs, riding side saddle. 
I say, Darling, you must stop 
wearing my clothes. They keep disappearing. 

She won’t leave the underside of my bed: all nails 
& raw scribbling. Every night she licks me 
to sleep like a kicked dog. I can’t get her 
smell out of my carpet: sea foam sick 
& frangipani, the roséd lard of Nana’s lipsticks. 

Out the window I see a mountain of fabric 
on fire. All my rehearsal skirts. Every t-strap shoe.