I would not wake up to a war with flesh,
twisting and turning to pinch in a soft waist to lithe sinew.
Slim limbs and sharp clavicles—
my edges would cut deep.
Perfection; walking anywhere as a body
of art, letting everyone’s eyes peer through
me to sunlight, a curved heaven.

The women of my family have said that success
depends on matchstick legs and sleek hips that
insure a delicate beauty, seemingly effortless.
But if my smooth form fractures,
the weight swelling into weaknesses,
I would rather lay scattered as another’s
mess, so throw me down to the swift end.

I am a dramatized china doll,
but I never rouge my knees.
The MC introduces me as Scarlett.
Lulu embraces me as we saunter
off the platform.  Whistles follow my footsteps
digging into my brain, fermenting,
to strong wine.

Gentlemen enter the club to leer
at cabaret girls dancing in lace.
Some are drawn to the boys of the club,
the ones in the dark corners with kohl-rimmed
eyes and eager kisses.
From their seats in the dimness, the audience
fails to notice rips in my blouse, cigarette
butts smudged out in the wings.  No one
sees the ***** face powder spread out
among the lighted mirrors, overused,
my own makeup dried out.
Their giggles and applause keep
the club alive, filled with dead
grins from dinner to dawn.
Drum roll—my turn.  
We rid them of their troubles.

More than one person remembers that day
as hot and tasting of catastrophe
in the flavor of airbag dust and gasoline.
We were talking as you drank your root beer.
Windows down. My shoes off…

4:02.
Your eyes widen
as metal screeches and the revving of engines
winds down, a man wearing sunglasses
yanks on my door, but it protrudes
into the cab. Another man takes you out —
shouts to me to move.  I can’t
find my shoes and my wallet is soaked.
Bystanders flock like they would at a circus
where a lion’s attacked his tamer.
Tears flow more freely than blood.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry. God, my fault spills
from my bruised lips until finally,
I collapse to the pavement like the fender
of the opposing Mercedes.  

I tried but failed to explain
that swerving the car to save you
meant near-death for me. Only after
regret and responsibility that crushed
my lungs faded, the way mascara dries,
did I acknowledge,
I am here.

My mother orders a smaller size
for my leotard so I ***** in the gym
bathroom, in the last stall.
Later, I put on the outfit: small, shiny,
with cutouts for a fashion statement,
but I draw red circles around those patches
of flesh--mistakes to fix.

Every day in the car, Mom gives me a lunch
she packed: two rice cakes, peanut butter measured
to exactly one tablespoon, carrots and ranch dip.
Accepting her boundaries seems weak, so I never
eat at all, my only spot of control set against
the nightmare of a needle spinning around
numbers in a sickening game of roulette.

She kneels in front of the stage during
all eight routines that thinned me into a figure
worthy of her photos, immortalizing
me with vague curves, a slim face replacing
pink round cheeks--
but that was enough for my mom
because I know she sets the scale
five pounds above zero.
Inches disappeared, until that needle,
sharp like her eyes, aligned
with the big 85, causing mine to
open in a room with blank walls
and sterile-smelling sheets, the place
of rest.

I half sing, half hum a slow melody
to myself as I strip down my face,
leaving only freckles and pores to match
plain child eyes.

Strong, warm arms encircle my waist
as I dry my face. You nestle your cheek
against my neck and shoulder, making goosebumps
where your scruff catches my skin.

Surprised, I listen hard to hear you mumble
“I love you” and sigh as your nose runs along
my collarbone, telling my skin that I smell
so good.

My mind turns fuzzy because it’s hard to fathom
this moment that’s a recreation of some sappy
young adult romance novel. But right now
I know you adore me, made up doll eyes
and airbrushed skin or not.

We enter the church and immediately
have to push through two dozen sobbing Italian women
dabbing dry eyes; their tissues only show
black and multi-colored smears. Amid the echoing
“Oh my Goawd”s, they lean down and kiss my sister’s cheeks,
but even in my best black cap sleeves, I am the taboo
to my cousin Janet, a woman as barren as the stone lot
in between her husband’s restaurant and Deihl’s Autoshop.

We find an empty pew, and watch as the men
stride down the aisle, contestants
in a cultural Miss America pageant where the wrong answer
gets you whacked. Their heavy brows
sink in condolence as they hand over stacks of bills,
every hundred becoming a pity penny
for all the moments Janet lost in her luxury-life
made shiny by diamonds and cars and fur coats
which can’t be cashed in for a second chance at a family.

The men have paid for the food, the china, the band
in the corner meant to fill the space of sadness—
a reminder that we live a lavish life.
My sister shifts in her seat and as a man walks
by she touches his jacket, and gasps.
He’s a god.