From beginning to end
she kept a straight face.
If she didn't, she would just explode.

The white, silk polka-dots
surrounded her, billowing
like an ivory cloud.
She grasped his finger tightly,
Her manicured hands sweating, feet throbbing.

The ring touched her head.
She had not promised herself to another.
She kept a straight face.
If she smiled, she would just burst.

On their heads were glorious crowns
of laurels and satin,
and they danced the ancient dance of Isaiah.

She kept a straight face,
if she didn't watch where she was going
she would fall, but he would catch her.

May you be as loving as Isaac and Rebecca,
as fruitful as Jacob and Rachel.
Another squeeze of his pinky, and a twitch of her cheek.
God grant many years!
Chant onlookers.

Her eyes flooded and washed away
her straight face.
Catching her soiled tears,
Papa's paisley black handkerchief.
She was still his little Tzeitel.

An ode of some sort

If there were two of me and I stood
upon myself, I still couldn't reach the top.
If I rolled over and over again, three times,
I'd just make it to the edge.

I'm way more colorful than you,
(and I check the "white" box).

You're mostly black, and the blotch of red
is such an eyesore. The beige is well...beige,
and that white line is a postscript.

Ties the whole piece together
Mr. Still thought, when he finished you.

Craning my neck, I stand looking
at you. Alone in a room, I can hear soft
echoing murmurs, *What does it mean?
What does it mean?

You don't make sense. From top
to bottom, left to right. A displayed plane
of utter confusion.

Someone thinks you're beautiful.

The silver fog slithers around
my ankles, slowly winding up
my legs with a serpent's silk move.
Squeezing her fingers, my mother
and I approach the barn-red house.

It breathes heavily and its exhale
reveals a backyard cemetery.
As the mist settles, a limestone
hand reaches out to ****** her away.

Down the street the dollhouse neighbor
cannot see me screaming, weeping,
I call for help.

Brown-green water drips from
the bathroom ceiling--
the plumber continues plumbing.

Sweat beads form on the tip of
the fat priest's nose, as he climbs
the broken stairs, he continues preaching.

The porcelain girl wears her mother's
brown-stained ivory prom dress.
Chanting, Sonofabitch. Sonofabitch.

They cannot see me--
I flail my limbs.
They cannot hear me--
Their own cursing drown out my voice.

Our sweaty hands grasped tightly,
white-knuckling, bracing for impact.
My paint-and-peel green nail polish
ruined by the last round.

"It matches the grass stain
on your white tights!" Cody yells
from across the yard.

I'll get you for that, traitor.

We call him over--
Time slows, cheeks redden, teeth clenched.
Our bodies bend with the sudden contact.

Too strong for Cody, we stand tall,
Grass stains and tears follow him home.

Paint peels off walls as
Cracks grew from the crumbling
Drywall, the window sill rotten.

Home.

Amelia sat at the edge
of her new marriage bed
and soaked in her arrangement.

Looking into the spotted mirror,
Persephone wipes her eyes too.

At the edge, she's slumped.
Chin resting on her sore wrist,
As she's gazing out the window, listening
to the crisp October air dance
upon the window panes.

Her husband, a bear with
a piercing gaze, would soon
be clouded in a winter slumber.

It would be then Amelia could
Dance in the white forest.

The girl in the canary yellow dress
tosses her dried baguette crumbs onto the dirt.
With 35mm eyes her parents watch
as flying beggars swoop down
to feast on a simple meal.

Neon signs flash, blending in with the
clicks of the tourists.
Words blinking in a language
foreign to her own.

Beastialité!
Deux jeunes filles,
une tasse!

Her dark ringlets bounce in
the breeze from the red windmill,
where Nini-legs-in-the-air once cut rugs.
A whisper reaches her,
calling in a language she has
yet to learn.

I like to say I live comfortably
in my own filth, but that's just lies.
My house is disgusting, at least in my eyes.

The ***** clothes mingle
with the clean, all stacked
on the floor, anxiously waiting
to be put away.

I avoid the dishes, like nobody's business,
trading the chore for ***.
Is that considered prostitution?
a barter of sorts,
my husband's labors for my services?

Honestly, as long as the bed
is made, I can live
in this pig-sty at least
for another day.