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Trademarks of Desire Under the dim-eyed lens of an ancient projector I watched the trademarks of desire. Outside, the city blistered between sidewalk and sky while I watched the experts: Greta Garbo, Rekha—women who made me suck in my cheeks, square my shoulders—who’s clever toss of hair and mascara-laced flutter I wanted to become. But something always got lost in the space between the screen and me. My body, illiterate, was clumsy neck and hesitant shrug—a poor mimic, sloppy translation. Still, I’m hoping for the gray exhale of a discrete cigarette, the Saturday-night drama of a dance and a man who chews gum like a Casanova— his sharp flex of jaw, quick roll of tongue. I’m holding • • •  • • • my breath until I can ripple in high-pitched stilettos—until I can shimmy under the silk swath of a sari like rainwater. • • •  • • • ...

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