She chooses to be
vivacious
and in her visibility
she is a
stunning vision.
I see her
shamelessly strut down the
grocery aisle
talking to snooping
strangers
and picking
flavorful fruit.
There is no insecurity in her
bell bottom jeans.
She is not
submissive.
Not shy or apologetic.
Her burly black,
faux fur
wig
with her porcelain, play dough
face
scream uprising!
Her high-heeled, bold brown boots
clip clop contentedly
on the inflexible floor.
Her fallacious fawn eyes
beam with amusement.
She’s at home in her
feminine fecundity.
I admire her authenticity.
I awe in her affability.
She owns her sexuality
and disregards the ornery onlookers
who question her indecent identity
because she possesses
a presence of mind
and a powerful poise
that she wears willfully,
like her towering tresses.
She is an inspiration among
average aisles
of passable potatoes
and ambiguous apples.
Not hiding in her
crowded closet,
but out
shamelessly shining
in her stunning
and wholly embraced
revolution.
Feb 25, 2018
Feb 25, 2018 at 3:17 PM UTC
He wants me at first sight.
His glorious, thick-lipped smile,
surrounded by deep and dazzling dimples,
a square, solid jaw and chiseled cheekbones,
shines in the light of his well-worn work truck.
A whirlwind courtship and I am spinning.
I’m a beautiful ballerina in pink toe shoes.
Yet, I’m a clumsy cog, a contrivance,
desperately longing to find my home.
He wants too much of me.
He is insatiable in his desire.
“Sing for me,” he chants.
“You could be a star! I can see it now.”
His dark brow highlights clever, hazel eyes.
His button nose hides his
heritage, but his thick accent
gives him away.
He reeks of macho ideals and an entrepreneurial spirit.
He asks my parents for my hand.e’s doggedly determined.
A stony shiver runs down my barely-bent spine.
I push the far-off fear away
and dig deeper
into the safety of the sofa.
Sweet sadness kisses the girl
with hidden harbored afflictions.
The fair haired, pale skinned girl
with narrow back and large back end.
I’ve a delicate face and bright green eyes
with feet and ears as large as a man’s.
My fiery wit and sultry smile
hide the black cloud within my brain.
I have it all. Unwrap me.
I’m a prize in Nordstrom wrappings,
but also a stunning disappointment
in Prada heels.
A circle of gold slips possessively
on my relegated ring finger
in a land of strangers.
Their dark eyes burrow into me,
yet I wear my smile
like a shield.
Foreign tongues chant in ceremony,
and I am told to drink
the thick, sweet rosy wine. A bitter
spirit that offends my tongue.
A sad smile sits on my decorated face
like the painted palms
lining the path to the white wedding canopy.
My stomach groans. A rabbi chants.
In my mind, I chew on
French manicured fingernails.
Our bed is a crocodile pit with no rest.
Penurious, predatory eyes
cast an eerie glow on the taupe walls.
Green monsters snap at my innocent
toes
until my posture curves toward them
in subservience.
I made my pristine, picture-perfect bed,
so I remain there, despite the accepted
agony.
Every day, a new reason to hate
myself.
Each tireless tirade
with flailing hands and pounding fists leave me
alone.
I stare at the books on the shelf
to keep my composure,
while his Pacman mouth
spews ugly lies and spittle.
A thick spine of leathery brown
tells of long lost lessons of the Torah.
A tuft of black hair
juts out of the venomous
v-neck of his t-shirt.
His calloused hand hits the
soft skin of my face, but I don’t cry.
Nor do I wince. I merely stare
blankly ahead in the dimly lit boudoir
where jade jailbirds roam free
on diamond-patterned carpet.
Where is that lavishly lucky girl?
Who is this broken wife
who’s stolen her life?
I hide, pitifully, behind my extra
bulk
wishing away his crocodile cruelty.
The numbness envelopes me in its
superficially loving arms.
I become the hateful creature
that he wants me to be
and he hates me for this, too.
I hide in the shadows of the room,
but I am still visible.
I become a buttercream butterfly
free of the tirade
in the abruptly transformed bedroom
feeling the faraway freedom
of the acquiescent air on my newborn wings.
The pinched nerve decompresses
and I begin to fly
high above the ravenous room,
the frail, foreign female,
the mixed up, tormented macho male
and the pain held hostage
by the stranger I’ve become.
Feb 25, 2018
Feb 25, 2018 at 3:14 PM UTC
If luck knocks on your louvered door you will have a chance to fight your enemy. You will stand up like a crackerjack prize and pay no mind to the man that broke your backbone.
Into the windowless courtroom you will trek. People lined up on hand carved benches, staring with unaroused expressions, waiting warily for their names to be called.
You feel your breath halfheartedly fill your emaciated lungs with foul and cumbersome air as you survey the miserable scene and avoid locking eyes with the man that was disguised as your one true love.
You wear a band of rubber which you snap on your wrist at the first sign of weakness so you stay focused on the gavel’s exclamation.
He tells your long-lost spouse from another life with another wife that this is not Watergate and “I don’t recall” will not suffice in his civil courtroom.
His honor dishonors his woven white robe when he yells in your direction with agape red mouth and judgmental judicial tone. When the courage strikes your hand-stitched smile will widen with words and you will command an audience of perjurers who will point forceful fingers at their prior partners that used to be ****** lovers and now sit dead pan wantonly waiting to bleat themselves dry.
Slam the gavel while the corn cracks in the microwave bag until all the edges have been popped out and fairness has been forced through the funnel like liquid butter with a diet coke to wash it down.
You walk away, down the dark labyrinth of hallowed halls snapping your gum and tip-tapping your heels as you flee from the referee who does not understand your half eaten heart with the wiggly worm within its wind-up walls. He will pronounce your fate with a backhanded expletive and a muffled “adjourned.”
Feb 25, 2018
Feb 25, 2018 at 3:09 PM UTC
I watched your gracefully long,
inflated fingers stretch out
to dial a digital code
on your silvery, slatted intercom,
requesting, no, demanding, that Joel
hustle his way through the humble halls
to your dominion
from the flaccid factory at the opposite end
of the bulky building
that you now so proudly owned,
never willing
to proffer credit for the generous growth
to anyone but yourself.
Sitting on the seventies colorific plaid sofa
in the expanse of your stately second floor office
I watched you shuffle papers, take a long
drag of your slim menthol cigarette and
call across the hall to a father unlike your own.
Her father. That unfit, unworthy, plain Jane wife of yours.
But he wasn’t really hers, because they were all
hustling for you, weren’t they?
I heard my Papa call over to you
in his kind, quiet way,
to ask you to go easy
on the poor sucker
journeying to your jurisdiction,
which made your sky blue eyes crinkle
with obvious revulsion
at the thought of going easy
on one of the many indolent soldiers
doing your bidding
in the catacombs
of the facility, the likes of which
you rarely, if ever,
set that size 16 foot of yours.
Immediately changing face, I watched as
an enormous mustache-framed smile unfolded
over your classically Russian,
hand-carved vanilla face,
like an animated Asian fan
in a Geisha’s dexterous dance.
You looked at me in boyish anticipation as you asked me,
“Where shall we go for lunch today?”
When Joel entered the vaulted, double doorway, he made no sound
as he tread on the luxurious gold-threaded carpet that had been laid
merely one week before, at the disgust of your father-in-law.
As he entered, Joel’s hunched-back frame curved due left
and anxiety clearly riddled his fearful face.
He began to whimper aloud, like a bleating animal
in line to be slaughtered, as your booming base bravado
shook the white walls
and made, even me, wince in astonishment.
It was the first time that I saw your potent power,
the likes of which I dared not ever ask to be
directed toward me, the eldest of your clan
and the most subservient of us all.
I learned early on that Daddy knows everything
important to know, that Daddy rules
the rectilinear roost, that Daddy should not
be questioned, even if my childish certainty
told me otherwise.
You needed me to believe in you.
It was your right to be followed
as a censured book of law
in the judicial system of life.
Once Joel’s injured suit of armor thumped its way
out the detached double door,
your face lightened five shades of pale
and delight beamed through your bright eyes
like a small child tasting the salty sweetness
of your very first kaleidoscopic-colored candy.
It was time for me to name
the extravagant restaurant of my choice.
It was once again you and I
against the unworthy, wretched world.
My know-it-all, darling Dad and your gifted little angel,
the extension of yourself in all the best ways,
granted I kept my mouth from moving and
my words to a pleasant, flattering tone,
like the finely spun fibers of your
newly acquired, gilded carpet.
Where shall we go, my foolish father?
Direct me, for my innocent eyes are
yet short-sighted to an intelligence such as yours.
Help me get up from your stately sofa
and build me a faulty foundation on which to stand
my worthless and wanting self
so that I may be worthy of the
peripheral love that so far has eluded me.
Feb 25, 2018
Feb 25, 2018 at 2:12 PM UTC
His father
threw
tabby cats
off
the tar roof
by their tail
as a boy
with his younger brother in tow.
“Winner!” he swanked,
hairless chest puffed out
as the heat of the day
scorched the
furry heads
of the felines
in the brown bucket beside him.
Saliva escapes
in a dribble
down my son’s chin
when he cries.
His father gives him
something to cry about,
as promised.
I am an addict,
craving kindness
from my
son,
who is also my
sun
when my days are spoiled.
His love for me
is laced with
need,
sticky like fly paper
or the molasses
he spilled
on his sister’s hair
on purpose
by accident.
His father demands
answers
while shining a desk lamp
into his son’s squinted
eyes.
“Tell me the secrets,
I need to know.”
The details escape his
loyal lips
like a slithering serpent
swimming
through his mother’s milk.
His affection is
viper’s venom.
I am a
******
and,
he is my
drug.
His weighty brows
are down-turned in warning.
If I had a tail,
his father would pull it.
I brace for the next
attack,
my enigmatic eyes
closed tight
so I am
deliberately blind.
The calico cat
hobbled away
on broken bones
wondering why
two young boys
played their
beastly game.
Feb 25, 2018
Feb 25, 2018 at 1:57 PM UTC