thick, slapping it with
metallic cherry lipstick. Flashing
the ivory as elephant’s tusks. But not
letting them strip you down, removing
the husks.

You plaster it on
the corset and silk underwire
bra. You stand as a donkey braying
“hee-haw”

You plaster it on
sugary, the tone and the pitch. But you’re
wicked as the wicked witch of
the west. Inside each breast is patch of
black lying dormant from every whack.

You plaster it on
the perfumed spray, so the dyed honey-
suckle hair looks like a float in the Macy’s
Thanksgiving Day parade.

You plaster it on
the charm, dying a little every time,
drowning in a glass of ***** and
lime. Smashed as a walked-on banana –
Sick of this Pollyanna

Hello, I'm Sandra