Monday, August 14, 2017
That gown has stayed blue for hundreds of years.
Imagine the agony of today's ephemeral celebutante
if she knew her likeness would hang for centuries,
only one image to capture her generation. What angle,
what filter would best represent her era's aesthetic?
What if all that remains is a paparazzi shot
of the less attractive sister in a chubby phase
wearing yoga pants and drinking coffee? The horror,
if our grandchildren only know us as we really are.
Ruins of buildings are lauded and stroked, but
a woman without makeup is a national joke.
Sunday, August 13, 2017
You don't own what you leave.
In the moment, while your mind
and body create, you give shape
to sculptures of syllables, to torsos,
legs of clay or skin.
You can tear out a seam, change
a child's understanding, only
as long as you keep claim.
Consider every angle, before
the world grades what you've made.
Tuesday, January 24, 2017
We face each other, but maybe
you are blinded by the sun, maybe
that's all you can see. It burns and
you scream and the noise is so loud
I cover my ears. Blind and deaf,
funhouse mirror women, sometimes
we switch sides, but until we stand
side by side, we will remain
Thursday, December 8, 2016
Tendu, plie, releve, every day
the barre is the same. They say
not to expect a change, don’t hope
he will fill the frame again.
Zelda Sayre, no one is there.
The white coats float like clouds
hiding lightning and no training,
no strength can steel you to the shock.
Stop spinning, stop turning. You’ve
lost your spot and the door is warm.
Friday, November 11, 2016
I hear myself talking
and know that it is happening,
it must be, I somehow got
into my car and even though
I wanted to drive into a tree
I stopped at the lights, and,
more the miracle, started again.
I had my hair done because
I keep my appointments
and Atlanta is covered in fog
so you can almost believe
humor still lives somewhere.
These people around me, some
of them have to have chosen fear
and anger, even if they seem kind,
that is the Southern way, but now
it is America, the monsters
are out of the closet and
they've thrown off their hoods and
they are proud. They have won.
So I got my hair done, but
my foot wanted to plunge right,
to use gas to escape. Everyone
would believe it's an accident.
We all know women can't drive.
Thursday, November 10, 2016
We're wet and weak for bleakest beauty,
that sweet second lick as ice cream melts.
Sunsets and horizons, unreachable edges,
transient fading frustrations agitate
and stimulate fantasy to frenzy.
Our country is a burning flag,
the dying blaze of what was grace.
Wednesday, November 9, 2016
I've lived my life to end it, neatly,
since the day the sky fell, or maybe
even always. I shrugged off strings,
neither married nor marionette, slept
in a room with one door, my cold feet
never far from the floor. Some nights
I screamed at shadows, dared the steps
to echo closer. Resigned to a run, I
expected ugliness eventually.
But then you. Hope, courage, all
those evolving energies that expose
our underbellies, leave us open.
The roots make it hard to hide,
and I wear shame like a guilty glutton
under dressing room lights.
I forgot this was coming.
I forgot the world was out there.