Los Angeles, I’ve Done It All

in pursuit of Ben Franklin’s 

tight green smile: Crushed mice 

in a miniskirt. Mined misery 

out West. Please, Miss, the men 

tremble, tremble like the earth.

I’ve kissed a gift horse on the mouth,

straddled it. Here the hills are full 

of gold. The city’s search lights blur 

the night sky. Go to the desert 

if you wanna see stars. Or for 100 bucks, 

I’ll punch you in the face.

The Genie Says Slow Down

I want a twelve-inch waist and a mermaid’s tail

A canopy bed and a feature film

I want to be called an enfant terrible 

in a magazine profile spread

I want silver slippers, golden hours 

mother’s helpers, psychic powers

I’ll keep wishing until you say stop

I’ve got this hook in me but I’m bloodless

Don’t tell me the moral or the catch

I want a hot bath and a cool saxophone

A mink stole and a stolen sphinx

Genie, make me a real fox 

and I promise to stop waving 

my wet-finned fingers at sailors

Make me cherub-faced and I’ll curtsey for you

With my torn scales, I’ll atone at your door

and drape my body over the great orange horizon

as everyone claps

Sascha Cohen is a writer from Los Angeles. Her poems have been nominated for the Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize.