Now I’m brunching
on weekends
Painting black bird wings
On my face
My hair spirals
Spirals
Spirals
Like my fear of the space
Between the face in the mirror
And the women in the catalogs
And yes
Yes
I’m getting closer now
To that ideal
I scribbled in ink
On notebook paper
When there were
Fewer lines on my face
I wait in lines
For the train
Wearing stilettos
Growing up tastes like
Black coffee and
Owning four mascaras
That all look the same
On my face
I take your hand
We look like
Your American dream