My Sisters at a Strip Club

Blunt mouths set like autumnal

curtains, my sisters do the math.

Their sour eyes play

on the automatons plow-dancing

through bottom-heavy hip-hop.

The sisters seize upon each

stripper’s dour tumescence,

the planned flesh blobs,

my girls put those girls in place.

I go along with them.

A tumult of murk and bottle bottoms,

a ribald dazed bloom of blouse and blot.

We blame both each left and right tit,

awesome milk mounds,

the strippers our Aunts of Moan and Float,

Sister Fawn and Sista Please.

One dancer on a plinth removes

her sarong beneath a tinsel shower,

flexes her hair and flaunts her shave,

then blows a kiss at my sororal fray:

my sisters remove bills from the runway

and the dancer feints grinding her

stilletto heel in their hands

until they approve her greed

and push the money back toward her.

My sisters, Sisters Sledge,

the original Pointer Sisters,

sour and solar and resourceful,

like these spectacular organisms

at a sacrificial feast of saturnalia,

mouth mottos of south-bound autism.

I sing a song of my blood-damsels,

myth of their tower, their power.