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Divas Don’t Cry
Ni-Ni Simone and Amir Abrams

 for Christian

Lately it’s been bad hair days and talk
about my latest man and his fling
in Haines City, my heart strings taut

at the thought of lace late in the night,
eyes like pools of vodka in my good
martini glasses they don’t have the sense

to wash before returning. My best friend says
I need to leave him, brings the tissues
and a bottle of cognac to our dinners

where we eat like goddesses,
but there’s no sense in wasting good liquor
and a box of Kleenex over his little engagements.

He knows who I am, queen of rock, pop,
and the love songs that have yet to be
penned, dutchess of the hours between

midnight and 11 PM, the sun, the moon,
and the earth my domain of play
and pleasure. I am the season of stargazing,

the river of hot summers, and the waterfall
of bathing suits so small, he craves
an untucked glimpse. Great men

have fallen to the hilt of their daggers
for a moment of my attention, my kitten
to the hearts of their lion’s mane,

my name like a jewel on their lips.
He thinks he’s slick, running around
with every Brad, Cole, and Parker

claiming to love me also on the side,
but if he hasn’t figured out I’m the entree by now,
then I guess he’ll have to suffer:

three nights of waiting, cancelling
last minute on important reservations,
a taste of his pride and demeanor,

and he’s not paid the balance
he owes me for. Some people even like
this torture. Me, I’m practically swimming

in what I know is mine, his body
writing checks I’ll cash when I can because
he fucked with the wrong one this time.

He’ll howl my praises when I’m
done with him, my kingdom’s glory
dripping like life off his tongue

and then I’ll show him what love
really is, the bullet I’ll stick in his head
an act of mercy, because once you're with me

there’s no subbing gold for plastic,
the real thing for something tragic, and dogs
die when they bite their masters.

Love Me Never
Sara Wolf

It’s the year of the flamingo and I’m all pink,
          my lips, my nails, my moustache, and ass
pink like a watermelon’s meat and, ooo,
          I’m hot, baby, like the Fireball we’re drinking
as we stand around the casino and play craps,
          and even though I always bet the dice will pass,
I never win in a way that makes me fabulously rich,
          but in a Frank O’Hara sense, I’m wealthy,
I’m young, I’m hot, I have friends who are a little more
          than just interesting, small, and tall and all
of them flashing a light in their eyes that makes me think,
          yeah, we’re not successful in a retire-by-thirty-
leverage-your-youth-for-a-shot-in-your-fifties
          kind of way, but, blow for me real quick, doll,
watch this roll, the chances of us falling in love
          tonight snake eyed and dangerously sharp,
but actually, don’t love me at all. I’m so sick
          of the same cheesy rom coms with some sopping
male protagonist who’s really a misunderstood artist
          bowing down at the stoop of his ex-girlfriend,
Sarah Marshall, and fuck that white picket
          fence nonsense–we know what he’s really there
for, and it’s not an elaborately orchestrated plot
          to marry. He doesn’t even have a ring yet
and Cher’s character in Moonstruck said it best
          when she made that man she didn’t love get down
on his knees in the middle of the Italian restaurant
          and give up his own jewelry, because if you want to ask
for somebody’s hand, you get down and you flash a band,
          a stone, or something silver and maybe even gold,
so what’ll it be? Are we betting to lose tonight, or are we
          looking at a glass of riesling for you and a red
for me, the pink of my tongue resting on the back
          of my teeth as the dice tumble, turn, and read
our futures, the white dots of the numbers
          like lights on the street of divine intentions,
and what’s more heavenly than gambling, drinking with your
          lover, and flamingos all over the bath towels?