for Nave*

Busyness makes one idiotic and forgetful.  And we nearly sunk the night
didn’t we darling, leaning on the wrong swing.  

(It is always the peach tree.)   Katrina doing her Harpy on Fullblast thing
with such deftness and professionalism she leaves us no room to respond

to legs and offers of spread cheese.  And poets cave in like lonely black holes
if they cannot response as fully as they have peaches in their coffers to do so,

or at least they think so and so do we so I escaped to shower, and tried to make
the water hot enough to round me straight again, but my skin still gets in the way.  

I wanted to peel off everything and douse my soul straight in the hot and the lavender, questing
for a readiness beyond the pale, some state rare, and infinitely usuable.  

It was only when, and this is true, when I decided to make a list of
why I love you that the water went in

and the lavender grew instantly between my toes.  And Rosemarey Clooney
danced you in to me and you were a happy Papa at last, and we knew enough.  And there
was finally room enough to
mambo home.

i don’t flinch as hard when i catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror anymore,
i cant help but smile at good things and like the person i see, her face different.
and though i am not skinnier, i am happier, and my hair is longer, fuller, wavy.
i spend precious time combing my fingers through it, adorning it,
with creams and oils, and nice smelling liquids, making sure i fix my bangs.
i put on my clothes, baggy jeans, worn and slightly torn, with a shirt that’s tried and true,
while i put blush on the apples of my cheeks, smiling so they puff up,
and i stare into my eyes, while i apply concealer underneath them, trying my best to look soft,
curling my lashes so they fan up and outwards, tickling my eyelids when i look up,
sweeping on a light layer of mascara, best suited for my eyelashes, strong and enduring,
while finally, i tint my lips with a gloss that was clear but stained pink eventually,
changed but still pretty, still usuable, still desired, still wanted.
later, i wash my face, wipe on toner with a cotton pad, and moisturise, though
sometimes i forget, and occasionally, i break out, pimples erupting,
and for a moment, im 14 again, with a forehead of acne, a hatred for the world,
and for herself, the way she looks, the way her mouth moves, the way her arms flail
awkwardly, all over the place, uncoordinated, while everyone marches on, foot in front of the other.
but i stop, i smile, and i wash my face, wipe on toner with a cotton pad, and moisturise,
my hair dripping wet with conditioner, curl mousse and hair oil, detangled with gentle fingers.
i look in the mirror, and for once i don’t flinch. my lips turn up slightly, and i smile.