about the author

Lara Hemingway is best known for her body biography as a nude model in New York City. With her newly minted degree from Eugene Lang College, Miss Hemingway has managed to stay in New York City somehow making it in the outer borough as everything but a writer. You won’t find her work anywhere unless you’re looking for a picture of her tits. Those old stories can be found in coffee table books and erotica magazines nationwide.

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Coney Island Leftovers

Lara Hemingway

Coney Island cracked ribs over rice, Coney Island food coma, fun-day      Monday good mood
          leftovers, plastic spoon plastic fork plastic knife, Dig in!

The sea tips a breeze like common courtesy as the good mood tide draws in,      draws out.

Many drunk ladies curtsey many drunk heads, free Mexican beer anchors      the backside of the
          boardwalk, limes juice themselves into cold glass silos.

Four fingers wide, the inches between her legs grow wide, wide enough      for baby to crown, Coney
          Island Mama!

Some fun-day Sunday Monday, papa loves baby to the sea’s edge
          see’s the sea lion, the otter, the manta rays, and the sharks,

inches away from death sharp teeth he stands baby by the shark tank, Reef,      White tip, Nurse,
          spotted dinosaur-face monsters glide beside, shark vs. baby, Shark      Wins!

By the skin of the needle, the thread of a hair, the softness of baby’s bottom,      the teeth of shark
          skin, a sandpaper torpedo jelly nightmare in the toothpaste ocean      hides your fascinating
          body, I’m stammered.

Baby runs the gambit like a crustacean tiptoes sideways, in light ever floating      steps, mind boggling
          the shark with a waving claw, gently circling bubbles, the sleeping left      hook waits to punch.
          Bam! Right in the face—

Shark wins.
Vomits the boy bare bones from dinner around the gulf-stream with baby’s      toes while celebrating,
          Miami bone boy hot sauce curdles with baby milk in shark-sack      stomach, disease

festers in these waters, a poem of aquatic monsters looks like
          these waters, these are the murky shallow waters
          where you’d like to dip your toes in.

Caution! Papa loves baby to the sea’s edge, past the shore boards and the tin      thrones, the salted
          smiles and jack-shot laughter. Papa love’s baby beyond the human      face to the supine glass
          surface of the sea, Sister Sky screams ‘grow gills baby, grow gills.’

Four leagues wide, the space between your baby grows wide, wide enough      for baby to drown,
          Coney Island Mama. Some funday Sunday Monday, the good mood      tide draws out.

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