3 by blake lee pate

Image by Peter Cole Friedman

SLUTTIN' W/ EXO

Every exo finds her pole
and holds it.

The party is over, Exo-Girl,
& I know you’ve got something
up your bra, poor girl.

In the morning, her eyes
feel more pink.
Pick your nails and remember
the pink drink, the sex sex—O

how we tweet exo
when we tongue the keys
and everyone reads.

You can win them over,
Exo-Girl,
like you push things
into your bra.

Exo puts a slicker
in her teeth, tells me
everything has gone
too long in the oven.

EXO-GIRL SO TWENTY

Exo-Girl so twenty
kneading dough
in the kitchen
pouting-me-up
for a binge.

Our skin-peel
is ready, she says.
I’m tingling
like yeast.

In my hand, a cup of milk.
In my womb, in my deep
deep part, Exo-Girl is grinding
wheat to make a Lady.

A naturally late girl-
child, she was, born into
my stomach with the know
for legs and thighs:

new skin is tight and spanky.
New legs and arms and neck extend.

The stomach pulses.
Suspicion. Knows nothing
of legs or want to cover them,
nothing of what it feeds

(a nudie photo, lacy panties,
her own wetness, etc.)
 
never flashed an ankle
never even had a slice
of thigh— 

Lend me your skin
for the morning, Exo-Girl

so I can be well
—and pink!

THE GIRL'S AFFECT MIGHT BE

Who opens her fresh belly & takes out:

            a gem-struck stone, a howl.         

Who cuts at her heart:

            Exo-Girl is there.

Who opens her juicy lips & says:

            lemon cake, s’il vous plait.

Who yanks her gobble—miss priss—& gorges a new one:

            from gold, a red warble.

---

BLAKE LEE PATE is from New Orleans and lives in Austin, where she co-edits Smoking Glue Gun. She received her MFA from the New Writer's Project at UT-Austin and served as the Marketing Director for Bat City Review. Her poems can be found or are forthcoming in Dusie, H_NGM_N, Forklift, Ohio, Black Warrior Review, New Delta Review, and elsewhere.