“Glitter makes everything better,”
the
art teacher said,
a
rule every girl-child knows.
Spark
ignites the dark,
flecks
each dress with stars.
Salome
sees,
bracelets
flashing in the fire,
how
the catch and throw of light
enthralls
the gaze.
A
ring of sparkle in a cave
makes
Gollum mad,
wink
of Fool’s Gold
turns
gentle men to murder.
Prometheus
discovered fire.
Eve
discovered glitter.
Bright
baubles on the tree.
The
diamond in the serpent’s eye.
Saints’ Lives
Rape.
A handful of pills. And it’s over.
A
brief life of skirts and curls,
slumber
parties, sacramental signs.
Water,
Chrism, the Body and the Slap.
Consummatum
est, He said upon His cross.
But
not like this, Lord, this girl’s answer.
St.
Maria Goretti denied him entry,
bled
out upon the scullery floor.
Father,
forgive him rung the copper pots.
St.
Joan stood stoic, bound to fire and flame
reveling
in the heat: My God, my God,
You
will not forsake me. She was that sure.
St.
Agatha’s breasts, sliced and served.
St.
Lucy’s mild eyes upon the dish.
And
St. Cecilia succumbed, they say, singing.
These
girls all aglow with one desire
painted
bright in hues of red and blue,
their
fixed lips mouthing softly,
yes,
yes, yes, O yes.
Tattoo
Queequeg himself in his own proper
person was a riddle to unfold, a wondrous work in one volume.
--Moby-Dick
Aureola
of vaccination, small sun.
Stippled
freckles burnt deep by Spain.
The
bite of escalator steps, right knee.
The
scalpel’s ounce of flesh, right breast.
Lines
of longitude etched along the belly
By
swell and swell and swell of child.
Wrinkled
forehead, crinkled brow of poor sight.
Neat
print of crow’s feet at each eye.
The
moles doled out at birth.
The
stiff lip of strong-limbed women.
These
marks, too, hieroglyphic,
A
language of eternity and once.
Story
inscribed on warm parchment
That
breathes and beats beneath life’s needle.
Other Mothers
Other
girls’ mothers
sold
Avon, Bee-line, Tupperware.
My
mother took lovers.
Young
ones. Dark ones. True ones,
the
kind that came back,
parked
their cars in the drive,
and
slept in our house
night
after night after night.
Other
girls’ mothers
wore
aprons, baked bread.
My
mother slipped on stockings,
stepped
into heels, and went to work
late
evenings while we’d lie
half-awake
in our beds.
We’d
hope for peanuts, chips, mints,
small
signs she’d remembered us.
Other
girls’ mothers
didn’t
like my mother,
grew
green-eyed in the grocery,
cold-shouldered
us at Mass
where
she’d stay in the pew,
marooned,
at Communion,
her
black mantilla
shadowing
her black eyes.
Other
girls’ mothers
liked
their daughters,
asked
them questions,
listened
for replies.
My
mother would have thought
them
amusing
had
she thought
of
other mothers at all.
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