My stripper name is the first five letters
of the world’s strongest chemotherapy
agent: Adriamycin, Adria for short.
A killer redhead with breath of ethanol

snaking through my port. Placed above
my heart, fed a proprietary blend
of mustard gas and tree bark.
It burned all the way in.

Who needs breasts anyway
with a mouth like hers, the parted lips
a crimson keyhole. Who needs
the sick wife sucking on ice.

Adria twirling round the IV pole
in her cherry red dress. Adria
in the powder room, between
a dried rose, a white seashell

and a bag of death. Adria dabbing
the corners of her mouth
like a prissy bulimic
with an embroidered handkerchief.

There’s no such thing as a free life,
so like an American I worked through it
with my wig on, and nobody noticed
when even my tears turned pink.