No One Is Immune by Carolynn Kingyens

          Baby, don’t you wanna dance
          up on me?
          - Britney Spears

A pillowcase stuffed full
of cold cash is dumped
over the head
of a buxom blonde
naked atop an unmade
bed in a hot mess motel
the color of puke
somewhere south
of Rio Grande.

Later, in a convertible
he carjacked, she’ll take
the wheel - and do donuts
where a lake used to be,
stirring a dust-bowl the size
of Dallas as he fires off
his gun into the air
for no other reason
than crazy.

Their door mat reads:
My Consequences Don’t
Live Here Anymore,
and for a while, this is true.

But a house built on shot
glasses, pill bottles
and ash trays will age
a body strangely — 
broken biology,
Freakonomics,
the way a fresh face
can turn into a catch-all
mitt, weathered before
its time; the way a delicate
voice can turn into the bark
of a seal, while the body,
from the neck down,
remains preserved
much longer.

The buxom blonde will rock
those daisy dukes, tank tops,
and cowboy boots
just like her favorite, aging
pop-princess, who shakes
her money-maker
night after night
on the Vegas Strip,
singing the same old songs;
dancing the same old
hip-hop moves
she did when she was 18
as her fans, who have aged
along with her,
scream her name in ecstasy
in the encore.

No one sees those swollen
joints she ices after each
show, cursing the
crookedness
that is her industry.

But the body, like time,
continues to keep score
on all of us, and no one
is immune.



Carolynn Kingyens lives with her beautiful family in NYC. Her poems have been featured in Boxcar Poetry Journal, Glass Poetry Journal, Word Riot, The Potomac, Schuylkill Valley Journal, Across the Margin, and The Orange Room Review. Her poem, “Washing Dishes” was nominated for Best New Poets by Silenced Press.