Day 22
Street Smart
At seventeen, she gave herself over to a slavery of fashion:
wore skirts that resembled cheap pillow cases, jeans
not scrubbed for weeks with holes in the seat and knees.
She painted her nails and lips black, corn-rowed
her unwashed blonde hair, frizzed the ends.
She wanted boys to like her. It was the recipe
of every desperate girl, mixed in front of the mirror:
be as common as a weed, be a xerox of every other girl,
don’t stand out, don’t act too smart [if you can, lie
about your SATs]. She hoped by eighteen there’d be a boy
for her, someone to ask her to Prom. In the back
of her closet, a shimmery dress of cornflower blue,
soft satin shoes to match, and long white gloves.
Audrey Hepburn never had to dress down for men,
Grace Kelly was born for her royal diadem.
Claire was run of the mill with a purpose —
there is no such thing as a princess these days.
Day 23
Pick Up
Tell me all things false are true.
— Counteé Cullen
Pick up your brush, curse this canvas
with pretty paint that I’ll believe
you love me. Tell me my hands
are musical instruments, my face
your mirror of God. Say I am
all that exists in the world.
You, artist
of lies,
all that exists in the world.
You, artist
of lies,
tell me what I want to hear.
Pick up your suitcase.
Leave your keys.
Day 24
At the Poetry Reading
She sweeps the audience for a face,
someone she might know
who’s bought her book,
a person who might shill
the crowd with positives,
get a few to buy tonight.
Not a familiar face
among the maybe 30
restless people,
most sitting near the back
for a quick exit if they’re bored.
She’s on her own to wow
them with that poem
about spring, the one
about brightly colored birds
soaring and swooping
over a perfect Maine landscape.
What she wants to read
is the poem about how death
came in the form of a lover,
how the woman’s kids watched
him take her from them,
praying they weren’t next.
She’d like to read a new poem,
something not in her last book,
knows this is risky, knows someone
will ask could you email that poem
so I don’t have to get the whole book?
When she says it’s new, not in the book,
the poetry lover will sigh and walk off
shaking her head, muttering
why did she READ it if it’s not available?
She thinks about putting out a tip jar,
something to bring in a few dollars
when book sales are low, but then
she’s no performer. She’s a poet,
and there are lines to be drawn here.
Day 25
Closet
Dresses and blouses
in several sizes, up sized
for the heavy years, slimmed
for the light. She fingers
her wedding dress, safe
in its garment bag, tucked
away from fading light, recalls
her mother’s fingers
buttoning and smoothing
in the little room off the altar
where she left as bride, returned
as wife to sign the certificate
that bound her to him. A drawn
breath, something like a sob,
and he comes into view, no longer
a ghost, but real as the fabric
between her fingers. There,
in the closet they once shared,
a whiff of his after shave, a bristle
of his chin, and she is alright again,
no longer a widow, once again
part of we. Music plays in her head,
she holds out her arms to him
for a dance. She takes the sleeve
of his wedding suit, wraps it
around her waist, sways with him
at this renewal of vows. In her closet
there is always the dance, the dress,
the question: did I love you well enough?
Day 26
Upta Camp
She wants it sold, needs to be done
with upta camp. She says it’s gotten old,
not fun keeping the saltines in a metal box
to keep ‘em crispy enough to float on soup
in mugs she found at garage sales. No fun
sleeping in sheets damp from the fog-air
of upta camp, no fun going up the hill
to the biffy, dumping in a cup of lime
after a day’s pooping and peeing.
Camp is his pet, each log fitted just so
into each other, brush cleared by his labor,
reedy weeds pulled to make our beach.
He made a place for us upta camp, a place
to be a legacy for generations coming next
after he was gone. But she wants it sold,
is vexed by our fussing at her when she insists.
As ever, she gets her way, is not swayed
by our tears or his down on the beach
where the pond laps at us for the last time.
People from away, from Massachusetts,
are eating off Nana’s melamine plates,
drinking from the purple, blue, green aluminum
glasses that sweat from iced drinks, warming
themselves on chilly nights by the wood stove
Dad installed himself, face blackened
when he put the flue on backwards. All that’s left
are a few photos and me still mad at her.
Day 27
In the Fairie World
What color is Tuesday
in Cathedral Woods
where fairies sleep
in houses built by children
who still believe
in magic and wishes?
Is it in spangled sunlight
or delicious notes
from birds who lived on
when dinosaurs failed?
What word is Wednesday,
spoken in the hush
of leaves that cover
the trail to secret
meeting places, ceremonies
for changing seasons?
What song is Saturday,
carried on the backs
of tadpoles as they wriggle
into frog princes or kings?
Along paths, under stumps,
at the edges of rainy pools,
the whole fairy world
knows the answers, will not tell.
Day 28
On the Bench By the Flying Horses
waiting for boys, waiting for summer
love she’s only read in beach novels.
Her hands sweat in her lap,
mouth dry as chalk. She knows this
is the summer when love will come,
will walk right up to her if she waits, waits.
The sun on her face, ripe as a peach in the sky,
salt in the air, on her lips. In her ears, drum beats
carousel music from the amusement park.
Wild Animal Kingdom,
where your wildest summers begin.
She wonders if she should have stayed home,
written a romance like all of her adventures,
a pack of lies in her diary.
Want an ice cream, Miss?
Suddenly it’s summer
on the bench by the flying horses.
Day 29
Flat
8 Marquess Rd, London 2PY—
cabs and lorries schushing
by in the early morning rain,
city waking slow and sultry.
National Nit Picking Day,
advert at the door of the preschool
across the alley, parents warned
to check the hair of every child,
to use the acrid soap,
the thin-tined comb if they find a few. Catch
the bus to ULU for class, the apple
man’s saved a tart one just for me.
In the pub later, over a pint of McCaffreys,
marvel at how much no one here
sounds anything like the Queen.
Day 30
Reading Richard Blanco
At 15 I learned that boys
sometimes love boys
the same as I did.
I found out they fight
over stupid stuff like I saw you
looking at him, saw him wink at you
like I did. I saw Paul chase
Dale with a butcher knife
out of the restaurant, screaming, crying.
At 19 my first apartment
on the wrong side of Burlington, VT
my three gay boy-friends next door cared
that I was safe, Carmine teaching me
to walk with confidence, his own walk
like a woman on the catwalk. Safety drills
every week, me rapping on the wall
to say come quick, Rick rushing in
with a baseball bat and a yell. Jay cooked
meatballs, fed me when my paycheck
at the phone company wouldn’t pay for meat.
Reading Richard Blanco, I remember
how tough it is to be gay, to be
Carmine or Jay or Rick, desire for something
out of reach, targets for a beating
on any city street. My turn to worry.
How have they spent the rest of their lives?
Day 31
Mad Day
There is a fire in her head,
no smoke to alert the fire department,
no warning at all that it was lit
or that it rages on destroying
her day. She’s felt it coming
for days, first a tick like a tiny clock
then a popping sound in her ears,
then full conflagration
from temple to temple, frontal
to nape of neck. It eats every moment,
makes it harder and harder
to stay quiet. She wants to stop
the emotional traffic, quell the flames
but all she can do is open her mouth
in a silent O and watch herself burn.
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