a strip club in Prague
After several beers my vision scans the bar mirror−attentive, beaming lighthouse. High heels click. Strobes ignite her platinum wig. On my thigh, her manicured fingernails trace figure eights−I bet you’d like to have your way with me, American?−My posture stiffens tight as her corset. Fresh out of a relationship, I switch the subject, brag I toured a Nazi work camp earlier that day for college−University? she asks. Then you must have learned about the Jewish son and father forced to kill each other in the captain’s pool, college boy?−Her English broken and sharp. I rise to leave—I bet you didn’t miss your shot to photograph the gas chamber—my stool keels over—I stumble toward a set of double doors. The bouncer cracks the granite profile of his face to wink—she’s a feisty one, American—his pupils constricted, his mustache clogged with pilsner.
Domenic Scopa is a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee and the 2014 recipient of the Robert K. Johnson Poetry Prize and Garvin Tate Merit Scholarship. His poetry, translations, and fiction have been featured nationally and internationally in Poetry Quarterly, Belleville Park Pages, Visions International, Cardinal Sins, Misfit Magazine, Poetry Pacific, and many others.