Her melons each have a name—Annabel and Lenore.
Round, ripe, ripping through her shredded T-shirt,
one bears a pierced nipple, the other a raven tattoo.
These ornaments came courtesy of Lucky Thirteen.
When Virginia flexes her pecs, the inky raven flies.
She swears she only dances, but they ask for more.
Not just tonight, but always and with cash in hand.
They dream of drugged ecstasy, however fleeting.
And she dreams of a three-bedroom in Midlothian.
Today she is 20, tomorrow she is 40, never older.
One day she'll swallow enough pills to turn blue.
She will die without ever knowing that Eddie
once wrote at a desk directly above her pole.
Note: The office of The Southern Literary Messenger, the Richmond, Virginia-based magazine where Edgar Allen Poe served as editor, is now home to a strip club. That is to say the site, not the actual building.
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