(not quite) a literary journal


Eyelet, by Catherine Weiss


once i donned a white eyelet dress & rode the L train

           to morgan or montrose, for to give an artist a hand job.

in exchange, he painted my portrait, oil on canvas.

           i sat on his futon & drank his wine, considering his 

industrial loft, his half-dozen roommates, his coveralls

           dabbed in cream. the artist asked me to stay the night

& i considered that too, turning his offer in my unwashed 

           palms. a magpie muse with her silver coin. when the 

paint was dry, i took myself & left. nestled his painting

           in the trash bin, a decision both joyful & precise.

Tip Jar