If romance is dead, then so is music-
Unchained melody, familiar tune.
Spare me the notes that I already know;
Trade it for something more original.
I just now caught the shadow of your smile:
It’s playing across the canvas of my ceiling.
Memory is the after-taste of sight-
Thus, let me be a connoisseur artist.
I don’t believe in “Always,” or “Never.”
We are too temporary for such words.
Promises are only good intentions,
Temporary honesty at its best-
Or, so They will say, those ominous They-
Societal demons in gold cages.
See how they watch. See how they point and stare.
See how they see me find my own way out.

Top down on a rented convertible
The directors, the tabloids,
The husband and kids— leave them
with the city traffic.

The humming of the engine
makes my toes vibrate
as I nudge the accelerator with my
size 11 foot.

I want to see
Azure skies, desert landscape
Lizards basking on rocks.

I’d adopt a coyote
He would teach me how to sing
Because he admires my long nose.

On the road, I feel the
power of abandonment—
Infinite. Priceless. Immortal.

My excitement rises with the speedometer
I would make it to Mexico City by nightfall
The birthplace of my mother.

I write her name in the sky
It waivers with humility
Condenses into streak marks
on my windshield.

Her reflection winks back at me
in the rearview mirror.
Ahead, I see dusk and
the milky colors of city lights.

If only I were a painting,
indestructible and charming.
Then, and only then,
would my fairness be untiring.

For Beauty, on the surface,
is oh-so-overrated-
for what does Beauty value
but mirrors, silver-plated?

As proven with so many souls,
Beauty is skin deep:
hollow eyes and empty smiles,
no substance for one’s keep.

And so, my dear admirer,
please keep this thought in mind:
I value Wit and Character
In lieu of polished shine.

While I thank for your kind words,
If, in truth, you are commending:
keep in mind, I’m but a surface.
Please, don’t touch the painting.

Your childhood plaything
Became your clone  

You traded crayons for
Your mother’s lipstick

Children’s fairy tales for
****** romance paperbacks

Your room’s rose wallpaper is
Canopied with Audrey Hepburn posters

At night, you braided your hair
For those sophisticated waves

You ****** on lemons
To perfect your pout, and

Brushed with baking soda
To bleach your teeth

Your envy: the doll’s porcelain skin—
Not too unlike the seat cover

You clutched after meals,
To keep the spirit clean.

Shame is a university sweatshirt
hiding the constellation on her arms,
mulberry stains left by his grip

after another sleepless night.
Her body stiffens
every time a bedroom door opens.

Her mother asks why she's not eating.
The stepfather, silent. Watching.
Her throat clenches, remembering his tongue.

At the community pool,
Her muscles constrict
with a different tension.

A good tension.

One day, she’ll be strong enough

to resist.

The papers said she was a small-town girl
from Massachusetts, an aspiring actress with
the looks of Hedy Lamarr or Norma Shearer.
The boys, they liked her minced walk,
those black curls and tight black dresses,
But it was the smile that won you:
An aphrodisiac painted deep red.

The picture didn’t do her justice.
I examined her body on a cold slab on metal:
Black curls, upstairs and down, matted with
Dirt and blood. Body, cut clean in half.
I bent over to get a look at those eyes:
Death hadn’t yet stolen their blue.

Folks say she didn’t care for school, but studied
Movies religiously. She was determined
to be known by the world—one day,
With bags and ambitions, she fled
To California. Reporters called her a vagabond amongst
Other Lost Angels; no permanent address,

though her mother received letters every week.
When the cops brought her in to identify the body,
I pardoned the girl’s condition; I had not yet
Stitched up the sides of her mouth.
I hear the leeches got to the daughter first,
Calling up the poor mother

With some cockamamie story that her
Little Betty had won a beauty contest.
The mother answered their questions proudly,
Never the wiser, never know she was
Ghostwriting her own daughter’s obituary.
Betty’s pretty picture was soon plastered across

Headlines and the evening news:
I could still hear the mother’s shrill screams
From a few hours before. I had kept the girl’s
Severed body draped, to give her
Some dignity, but I couldn’t hide
her Glasgow smile.