"curler" poems
This one time, my mom
and I said goodbye
to Juan's mom and we
walked from her apartment
to wait for the elevator.
Mom didn't like it
when I wouldn't stand still-
sometimes she'd smack me
upside my head just to
make sure I was there
(accompanied by her
motherly calls of malcriado)-
so I'd look in any direction
for a distraction or two.
Through the window a few feet
from my left, I could see two
older ladies in curler hairdresses
bochinchando like caffeinated hens
about the awfully friendly suelta
living next door to gallina #1
(they hung their hand-me-down
nightgowns and their husband's
boxers with such professional care;
if any article escaped the grasp
of family clotheslines, it was
roadkill forever).
I turned to the right
of the elevator doors,
counted the tar-black patches
of decade-old gum on the floor,
finished the half-written
sentences sprayed in *****
rainbows on the sweaty walls
by the zig-zag flight of stairs.
A boom and a click,
and the door creaked open
with the sideways grace
of a crab.
My toddler's impatience
boiled past the brim, I
exclaimed "FINALLY"
and began to walk forward.
Not a second later, I heard a
"NO" behind me, my mother
grabbing the back of my
cartoon mouse t-shirt,
letting out an ay cono, pendejo
that echoed eight stories down,
past the empty space substituting
for an absent elevator shaft,
soaring down that rusty freefall
at ten thousand times the
speed of a human boy's body.
Letting out a long exhale,
my mother did not allow
her emotions to brim over
the barrier-she recomposed
herself, all the while silently
chanting hymns of gratitude
in dedication to fate
and her reflexes.
We decided to take the stairs.
In my youthful oblivion,
I noticed a toy store
right outside the building
from the corner of my eye-
I plan to start begging when
we're at the bottom,
if we ever get there.
My mother took her sweet time
walking down those many steps,
reveled in the scratchy bristle
of the concrete against her sandals,
cultivated a newfound admiration
for my atonal imitation of a
Washington Heights car alarm-
it was a sign I was still there.
Sep 9, 2010
Sep 9, 2010 at 12:14 PM UTC
I may be a little rougher
than all those other girls:
skipping stones instead of gluing sparkles
rib-cracking laugh instead of lipstick smiles
tree climbing scrapes instead of hair curler burns —
but I’m softer than all of them.
I am your little avocado
dark skin cynicism and hardened core
but really I’m just as easily bruised
So, Sweet Smiled Serendipity,
please remember to kiss my cheek
my nose
my finger tips
when we lie together in a blanket of 2am sweat
because even after a night like that
I am more fragile than you’ll ever know.
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 8:00 AM UTC
Today I'm gonna tell you
How to be a good girl that Ma loves
First, remove all your piercings
But don't shove them down the drain
You'll need them later.
Second, have a straight hair that Ma likes
No buts and no ifs
Only yes and yes
But keep all your curler and ribbons
You'll need them to straighten your soul.
Nobody tells you this
In the street or in the market
Nobody texts you how it's done
But now that I've done it and I know why
Because it takes stamina to be a good girl.
Jun 24, 2016
Jun 24, 2016 at 9:25 PM UTC
1. Mirror
I am not so different
From a knife--
No use without a wielder,
Yet used so often.
Look at me
And I'll show you what to carve.
Oh don't try to hide it,
It's clear as glass.
2. Eyelash curler
Do not worry,
I will help you.
Do not worry,
I am only bending you.
3. Closet
I am an asylum.
I hold straightjackets.
Choose your own shackles,
I will give you the chains.
Go on,
Wear your insanity today.
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 8:17 AM UTC
Make-up hides the bumps, (she has too many)
Shadow highlights the eyes, (hers are much too dull)
Curler fixes the hair. (there's not enough of it)
But what,
my dear,
Do you call a heart?
Push up bra to help the girls, (they're too small to notice)
Tight shirt to reveal, (what's worth revealing)
New jeans to show your... Assets. (not that it's big)
But what,
My dear,
Do you call your heart?
Jan 4, 2012
Jan 4, 2012 at 10:55 PM UTC
Moment,
A suicide letter I write in 8th grade.
I heat metal chains
with my straightener.
Press.
Watch as sink holes
begin to expand in my hand.
Maybe,
A list of considerations.
Starting to see the crimson crust,
the weeping sores,
furrowed skin,
the combust of myself as beautiful.
Mimic,
I think I am copying my mother.
She sinks into her sheets,
a mess soaking into a towel.
Us only speaking when she finds
something to yell about.
Maniac,
The day I forgot to wear long sleeves.
My mother takes my straightener,
metal chains, scissors, “You’re crazy”
Pens curler, pencils, I’m Crazy.
Maternal,
I try to find a mother in a therapist.
Scar cream fills the sink holes.
The left over sores only remind
me of the depressed image of ill bed sheets.
Moral,
Learning that misshaping myself
would never fix the sick in her voice.
Watching as my hand
Extinguished the charcoaled
Sores with new skin.
Memory,
Looking at my left hand
and the scars that have
become only small ashes
of a fire.
Only a moment.
©DelaneyMiller
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 9:37 PM UTC
I choose the lonely puppy cowering in the corner
I adopt the shivering stray
I carry the wolf collapsed on the road
I eat stale bread
burnt gluten free waffles
straight grapefruit juice
cinnamon on the tongue
pickle juice and
spicy foods that produce tears
I sit in the snow
in shorts and tank
I leave the curler in my hair too long
burning my stale hair always
I wash my hands until they bleed
I eat until I'm sick
I scream until my throat is raw
I wash myself
under scolding water
that leaves my back
acne ridden
itchy
and tomato red
I sleep until I'm disoriented
and sick
then I sleep some more
I cry rivers-
never just one tear
I dare not speak a word on my mind
I dare not speak the truth
homework pages blank
no strength to go to school
I dress too plain
or too crazy
too bulky
or too tight
playing Jenga with responsibilities
and never winning
drowning in being alive
but not really trying to swim.
I do everything too much,
or not at all
compensating
for
a
million
different
things.
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 8:16 PM UTC
Wanna make a deal?
Let's make a deal.
It's just one time.
Don’t do it.
Do it one more time.
Wanna make a bet?
Turn the dial to 5
Watch what happens when you don’t listen.
But you’re gonna listen.
Why wouldn’t you?
It's just one more time.
Apr 26, 2020
Apr 26, 2020 at 7:37 AM UTC
My stomach does that thing—
you know, when the ghost
rests a hand there.
Not a hit.
Just a hush,
and fingernails.
Like it never left.
Like I’m the one
who forgot to feed it.
It’s always at dawn.
Or mid-laugh.
Or in line at the dollar store—
buying nail polish I’ll chew off by Tuesday
and an eyelash curler,
just in case he sees me
from across a decade.
Then you paraglide in—
a salesman who knew I’d be home.
And the floor remembers
what I worked so hard to forget.
And I gasp—like I tripped.
But I didn’t.
I remembered.
I remembered
the ghost
you left me to raise alone.
Like:
“Hi. Just passing through.
Don’t stress on my behalf.”
I nod.
And I don’t.
I keep chewing the same nail.
My eyelashes are curled.
My stomach still does that thing.
You know the one.
Apr 23, 2025
Apr 23, 2025 at 11:30 AM UTC