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GODDESS
IN THE CORNER OFFICE
by Janice Lierz
A
goddess stood below my window
at
the corner of Forty-fourth and Fifth.
She
didn’t wait for the light to change,
wearing
a tailored suit I thought too tight,
teetering
on heels I thought too high,
stopping
cars and horns with a
three-finger
salute.
Her
form appeared in my looking-glass,
dropping
sunshine on my cluttered desk
like
lemon squares from her cardboard box
with
her wild hair full of twigs and leaves,
mystical
eyes that foretold secrets.
They
put her in the corner
next
to me.
I
said, “Hi, we’ve met before?”
while
she unloaded her lightning bolts
and
magic wand she set on the ledge
because
they needed sun, and she shoved
Mr.
White’s exotic orchid aside,
leaving
watery traces
like
open wings.
Deaf
to the phone, she cranked her boom-box,
propped
her feet on the desk and sang
off-key
with Aretha Franklin.
She
cut out paper dolls from memos.
Linked
paper-clips to make swooping necklaces.
She
posted love letters in an envelope
Return
to Sender.
She
did
all
of the things
I
wanted to do.
She
refused the mask to hide her dreams.
Wore
perfume she ripped from magazines.
She
only drank from a sterling cup.
She
hiccupped and belched and covered it up.
At
times I saw her sort and stack
but
mostly she threw things away
without
looking back.
They
put her in the corner
next
to me
but
her eyes were on a
corner
office.
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